


Lupus venefica

by lusilly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 3b, Body Horror, Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Character Death, Character Development, Fanpack, Gen, Hale Family Feels, Haunting, Horror, Original Character(s), Original Mythology, Plot, Post 3a, The Hale Family, The Hale Pack - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 87,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lusilly/pseuds/lusilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new pack with an old connection to the Hales comes into town, seeking revenge. The Darkness settles deeply across Stiles, Allison, and Scott, bleeding into the rest of the pack. And then real blood begins to flow, and a mysterious symbol begins to appear, linking Allison's family with the Hales, linking Cora to great power, linking the gap between life and death.</p><p>Something shadows them, looming great and dark and dangerous, and yet untouchable. Inheritance hangs before Cora, waiting for her grasp. When she claims it, it claims her, and the haunting begins.</p><p>(The dead are coming to Beacon Hills.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aranyani

**Author's Note:**

> My imagining of what 3B should be. I love Scott, but off the bat you should know this is not a Scott-centric fic. This is a Cora-centric fic, because she was unconscious for too many episodes in 3A and we never got the extraordinary development for which she had the potential. Assume for the purposes of the story that Derek and Cora left at the end of 3A and came back recently. Ethan and Aiden don't show up at all, assume what you want about them but I wasn't really into the idea of keeping them around after everything they did in 3A.
> 
> This fic introduces a ton of mythology and lots of History behind the workings of the Hale family, behind the Argent line, a little about traditions and customs of werewolves, as well as explanations of and elaborations on several things left unaddressed as of yet in canon.
> 
> I'll update twice a week. It's only 13 chapters, about 85k words total. According to that schedule, the final chapter should be posted on Sunday the 5th, the day before 3B premieres. Each chapter is named after a goddess or female deity from various mythologies, and will open with a short description or quote about her from sacred texts or myths.
> 
> Most credit here goes to my sister Emily (http://iloveeverythingwaytoomuch.tumblr.com/), who got me terribly, terribly, terribly into Teen Wolf.
> 
> Finally, I'll direct you to the official Teen Wolf 3B teasers. They came out practically the day I finished this fic, and I'm not kidding when I say they (especially Stiles's) could serve as trailers for the story you're about to read.
> 
> Thank you and enjoy!
> 
> ************Some archive warnings for graphic violence and death may be added in later chapters*************

Aranyani

GODDESS of wild and forest who seemest to vanish from the sight.  
How is it that thou seekest not the village? Art thou not afraid?  
...And, yonder, cattle seem to graze, what seems a dwelling-place appears:  
Or else at eve the Lady of the Forest seems to free the wains.  
Here one is calling to his cow, another there hath felled a tree:  
At eve the dweller in the wood fancies that somebody hath screamed.  
The Goddess never slays, unless some murderous enemy approach.  
Man eats of savoury fruit and then takes, even as he wills, his rest.  
Now have I praised the Forest Queen, sweet-scented, redolent of balm,  
The mother of all sylvan things, who tills not but hath stores of food.

[x.](http://www.sacred-texts.com/hin/rigveda/rv10146.htm)

            _In his dream, he sees something in the distance. It’s dark all around him, but the thing he can see is somehow darker than the rest, like the deepest shadow in a dense forest. It lurks and darts preternaturally, with no grace and no awkwardness – it moves essentially and starkly. That’s all he can tell. He tries to follow it, but suddenly he is frozen._

_With a jolt, his body jerks awake, like he’d just lost his footing and almost fell, lying prone in bed; somehow deeply disturbed, although he can no longer remember why, he tries to draw a deep breath of air._

_Nothing comes. His lungs, the inside of his chest burn. Eyelids flutter open and through a gentle haze, his vision adjusts, and suddenly it strikes him that he is no longer asleep. He tries to breathe again; the best he can manage is small, shallow breaths._

_He breathes them slow, his body stiff and immobile, so as not to disturb the thing sitting on his chest._

\----------------------------------------------

            “This is such a bad idea.”

            Derek didn’t quite glance over at his sister, one hand at the wheel, driving the car down a road in the misty autumn morning. “Getting a high school diploma is not a bad idea.”

            A grimace etched onto her face, Cora stared glumly out the window, watching the trees pass beside them as they drove. “Public school. In Beacon Hills.”

            With a little nod of his head, an acknowledgement of her real concerns, Derek replied: “It’s where I went.”

            “And look how well you turned out.”

            There may have been a hint of a smile on his face when he finally glanced towards her. “You’re not even eighteen yet. You’re legally obligated to go.”

            For a moment, Cora did not reply. She lay limply in the passenger’s seat, leaning her forehead on the cold window, creating a ring of condensation around where her skin touched the glass. Quietly, she said, “You couldn’t make me.” She paused, and Derek could not tell how much of it was hesitation. “If I really didn’t want to.”

            Derek said nothing. Cora hadn’t expected a reply to that; as much as Derek told her he would have sacrificed anything for her, the change in his eyes from red to blue was still a point of injured pride, she could tell. They had talked little about it. In the months it had been since her brush with death, they had rarely been around one another during the full moon. Whether it was because he had lost his status as Alpha, or because he didn’t like her looking into his eyes that should have been yellow, she could not exactly tell.

            When the school was in sight a few minutes later, he finally spoke: “Scott said he’d show you around.”

            “I don’t like Scott,” she replied, looking at the building before them with distaste.

            “Then Stiles will show you around.”

            “I don’t like Stiles either,” she said, then she turned to look at her brother. “I’m really not kidding when I say I don’t like _anybody_.”

            “Call me if you need anything,” he said patiently. “But just try one day. Please. For me.”

            She watched him for another moment, as he turned into the parking lot. Then, finally, with a slight roll of her eyes, she tore her gaze away. “Fine,” she said. “But you know I don’t play well with others.”

            He stopped the car, and she opened the door to get out. As she took her backpack from the seat and slung it over her shoulder, Derek leaned over the seat and said, “Cora.”

            With dark, angry eyes, she looked to him. “Yes?”

            “Stay away from Allison,” he said, without breaking eye contact.

            She stared at him. With a glance around, she said, “I thought you said they weren’t hunting us anymore.”

            “Yeah,” replied Derek. “But still.”

            Adjusting her backpack, she shook her head slightly. “You need a minivan, Derek, you’re turning into a soccer mom. You gonna come pick me up too?”

            “Unless you want to walk home with one of your friends.”

            If it were anyone else, they may not have picked up the dry humor in his voice. But Cora did, and where she might have appreciated it years ago, it had been too long and the moment was too tense and Derek hardly ever made her laugh anymore. She all but scowled, murmured, “I’ll see you later,” and slammed the door shut.

            Derek didn’t move for a minute, still hanging across the seat, his lips pressed tightly together.

            As her brother drove away, Cora turned and looked up at the school before her. It was hardly an impressive building, and any trace of fear she might have had at that point evaporated into pure distaste. Against her better judgment, she gritted her teeth and began to trudge towards the open doors, where teenagers congregated. There was nothing she wanted to do less than talk to one of them.

            At the exact moment this thought passed through her head, someone called her name. “Cora! Yo, Cora, over here!”

            Without looking around, she continued walking. He called her name again, and she heard him say to his friend, “She probably didn’t hear me.”

            Scott replied – and Cora could tell from the note of amusement in his voice that he was talking more to Cora than his friend, “I’m pretty sure she can hear you, man.”

            But a moment later, Cora let out a silent sigh and braced herself as a hand landed on her shoulder and, breathless because of running across the hall, Stiles said, “Hey! Cora!”

            She turned around to meet his gaze, a tight smile on her face. “Yes.”

            There was an awkward moment; suddenly Stiles didn’t know what to say. And then, just as easily, he said, “So do you need any help finding your classes? What are you taking?”

            For half a second, she thought about turning around and leaving Stiles and Scott, who had just caught up and was hovering just slightly behind his friend, a wary look on his face. But then, reluctantly, she dug a hand into a pocket on her backpack and pulled out a crumpled schedule, shoving it towards Stiles. Smoothing it out, he looked at all her classes. “Huh,” he said. “These are all junior classes.”

            “I am a junior,” she replied, snatching it away from him. “If you hadn’t figured it out already, it’s been a while since I was in school.”

            “I think we have a class together,” said Scott; she’d barely noticed he’d been glancing at her schedule over Stiles’s shoulder. “Pre-calc, fifth period?”

            “Dude,” said Stiles, looking over at Scott. “You’re in Pre-cal?”

            “What?” asked Scott, decidedly, Cora noticed, un-self-conscious. “I suck at math, man.”

            “You were in that class with me last year!”

            Scott shrugged. “So I know I can pass. And, you know, graduate.”

            “Well,” sighed Stiles, shaking his head with faux-disappointment and addressing Cora. “At least you’ll have a study buddy.”

            “Yeah,” said Scott, with a grin. There was no trace of insincerity in his smile, but Cora met his eyes without reciprocation.

            “OK,” said Cora. “I’m going to go find my locker now.”

            “You need any help?” asked Scott.

            “No,” she replied. “I’m pretty sure I can read numbers. Thanks.”

            Derek would’ve picked up the dryness in her voice, realized it was not as unfriendly as these boys took it. She saw the look in Scott’s eyes flicker slightly, and Stiles made no attempt to hide the odd look he shot towards his friend. At least they left her alone.

            She headed down the hall, glancing at the number on the piece of paper and the numbers imprinted on the metal lockers on the wall. It had been a long time since she’d been around so many people, and she didn’t like it: the sounds, the smells, bitter and intense and overwhelming. Maybe she had spent far too much time closer to a wolf than a human, but nothing seemed to make sense.

            _At least_ , she thought, glowering at a group of teenagers parading by, _there are always packs._

            Finally, she stopped at a locker that appeared to be hers. While she was spinning the dial, someone down the row glanced up and noticed her. His voice hardly raised – but he knew she’d be able to hear him – Isaac asked, “Having fun?”

            She looked up. He smiled at her, then closed his locker and sauntered over to her as she opened her own. “Not really,” she replied. “I’m one more slack-jawed guffawing jock away from either ditching, or slashing somebody’s throat.”

            Isaac let out a little whistle, leaning against the locker beside hers. “Just some general advice, try to avoid that last one.”

            She stared at the empty locker, its vacancy taunting her. “I am trying,” she muttered unhappily.

            “Besides,” he continued, “I kind of am a slack-jawed jock. I don’t know about the guffawing part, I guess, but think I take offense.”

            “You’re a stupid teenager,” she agreed, taking a book out of her backpack and placing it in the locker, then slamming it shut. “But you at least…I mean, you _know_.” When she looked at him, there was something like desperation on her face, but her voice was quiet. The small smile on Isaac’s face softened and disappeared.

            She looked away from him. Quietly, Isaac said, “Yeah. I know.”

            After another moment’s hesitation, she pulled out her schedule again. “Isaac,” she said, her voice mumbling and quiet, sounding almost tired, “do you know where room 128 is?”

            He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Let me walk you there.” He nodded down the hall, and she followed him. “So,” he began, as they waded through the crowd, “what’s Derek doing, now that you guys are all officially settling down here?”

            “I don’t know,” she replied, a slight grimace still on her face. “I think Peter has work for him.”

            “What kind of work?”

            “Hopefully the kind that doesn’t involve killing people.”

            Isaac nodded. “This _is_ Peter we’re talking about, though.”

            “I know,” she sighed, “but Derek seemed pretty serious about staying here. I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

            Isaac gestured down another hallway, and they turned. Lowering his voice, he asked, “So – Derek never gave me a straight answer. If he’s not an Alpha anymore, then – what? Are you sticking around because of Scott?”

            “No,” said Cora firmly. “Believe me, neither Derek or I have any allegiance to that kid.”

            “Then what? Are you just, I don’t know, Omegas, or something?”

            Coolly, Cora said, “We have an Alpha.”

            “OK,” said Isaac. “Who? Peter?”

            They stopped before a door labeled 128. Cora looked up at Isaac simply, and didn’t say anything. The bell rang.

            “You have a pack now,” she said, her voice very quiet, “and it’s not ours. Remember that. And make sure your Alpha knows, as well.”

            She met his gaze for another second, then entered the classroom.

            In English class two halls away, Scott sat beside his best friend. “It worked out,” he whispered, eyes glued to the board so their teacher wouldn’t notice. “I mean, now at least we can keep an eye on her. And I don’t know. Maybe it would be good for her too. It’s not like she and Derek-” he broke off, glancing at Stiles. His eyes flickering in between the board and his friend beside him, he whispered, “ _Stiles_ ,” and shook Stiles by the shoulder a little.

            Stiles jerked awake, blinking blearily. He mumbled something nonsensical, but Scott was sure he heard him mutter something in particular, and it made Scott vaguely uncomfortable.

            “Dude,” said Scott. “It’s the first day.”

            “Yeah, I know,” murmured Stiles, rubbing his eyes. “Senioritis.”

            Scott stared at him. “Stiles,” he said again, “it’s the _first day_.”

            “Don’t judge me.” He yawned. “I’m gonna go home in my free period. Catch up on sleep. Fifteen-hour nap.”

            “Yeah, I think they usually just call that a coma.”

            “Whatever. What are we talking about?”

            “Cora,” responded Scott. “I’m still not sure she-”

            “No, not you,” said Stiles. “The teacher.”

            “Oh,” said Scott, looking up. Their teacher, old and clearly not noticing that none of them were paying attention to him, was lecturing on about something. Turning back to Stiles, he said, “OK, but this is more important.”

            With a slight rolling of his eyes – although Scott detected something maybe like admiration in his friend’s face – Stiles said, “See, this is why you’re repeating Pre-cal.”

            Just after noon, Derek’s phone buzzed; swiping it open immediately with a sense of dread, Stiles’s name came up, not Cora’s. He opened the message. It was a picture of Stiles leaning in against Cora while she gave him a look that generally precipitated grievous bodily injury, with the caption: _She’s almost as grumpy as you_.

            Derek rolled his eyes, the anxiety in his gut unclenching. Another text. This time it was from Cora.

            _There is literally nothing I hate more than teenagers_.

            He replied. _You are a teenager, Cora_.

            Sitting at a lunch table surrounded by people she had no desire to interact with, Cora read her brother’s message, then looked up. Allison Argent sat across from her, between Scott and Lydia. “I repeated a year,” said Allison with a shrug, taking a bite out of an apple. “It’s not a big deal.”

            “Yeah,” said Stiles. “Besides, when was the last time you were even in school?”

            “A while ago,” answered Cora, without looking up from her lunch.

            “Where?” asked Isaac. She shot him a look, and he didn’t press her.

            “Things’ll be easy this year,” said Scott. “I mean, not like it can get much worse than it already was, right?” He laughed.

            “Dude,” said Stiles, “don’t say that. You’re gonna jinx it.”

            “Jinxes aren’t even real.”

            “Really?” asked Lydia dubiously, leaning in to look at Scott across Allison. “You’re a teen werewolf eating lunch with your pack, and you don’t believe in jinxes?”

            “I’m not part of his pack,” Cora pointed out. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

            Stiles let out a little sound as if he were doubtful of her statement, then said, “Think about it this way. You could either be a werewolf, and run around in the dark occasionally biting people, or you could be a werewolf _and_ a person, and have, y’know, a life.”

            “Stiles,” said Allison, a rebuke. Cora was staring down at her lunch before her, unmoving. Instantly Stiles realized his insensitivity, but before he could continue, Lydia said, “You need to come over to my house this weekend, Cora. We’ll get you some new clothes, and maybe – well, maybe fix your hair…”

            Allison replied to that, and they fell into easy conversation. Cora sat mostly in silence, staring down before her, never quite making eye contact with any of them.

            As lunch period ended, Cora unenthusiastically followed Scott’s lead, heading to the math class they had together. Leaving the cafeteria as well, Stiles caught up with them. “Hey!” he said, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “Uh, Cora, can I just…” he trailed off, but jerked his head to the side of the hall.

            She watched him for a second, unamused, then said to Scott, “Hold on,” and stepped aside with Stiles.

            “Look,” he said. “What I said. You know. About the, having a life and stuff. I was just kidding.”

            “I know you were kidding,” said Cora. “Do you really think I’m so stupid that I wouldn’t know you were making a joke?”

            “No,” said Stiles quickly. “That’s not – I just mean that, I don’t know, _sometimes_ I come off as kind of a jerk. There. I said it. But I totally promise I’m not.”

            Shaking her head at him, she replied, “OK. Sure.”

            She turned to leave, but Stiles grabbed hold of her arm, saying, “Wait wait wait! Cora!”

            Very slowly, she turned around to look at him. Something glinted in her eyes, not quite color, but still threatening, dangerous. Instantly, he took his hand away from her arm. “All I’m trying to do is be nice to you,” he said. “If you would just let me-”

            “I don’t have to let you do anything,” she said blankly. “I’m not here because I want to be. You can think whatever you want about me, I don’t care.” She stared at him, so intensely that Stiles felt he had to look away. Slowly, quietly, she said, “But do. Not. _Ever_. Touch me again.”

            Without allowing him to respond, she joined Scott again, who, before heading off to class, glanced back at his friend as if to say, _What did you do?_

            Stiles stood there for a moment, somewhere in between frustration and genuine disappointment. When the bell rang, he headed out the doors of the school, back to his home on his free period.

            Scott didn’t try talking to Cora too much in math class. She propped her face up on one hand and mostly looked out of the window as the teacher talked. He sat directly behind her, and twice almost reached out and tapped her on the shoulder, but did not. If it had been Derek, he would have spoken to him; if it had been Peter, even, there would have been less uncertainty. Cora was his age, but was somehow far away. More than untouchable she was – unapproachable. He couldn’t even get near her.

            Suddenly, there was a high-pitched wailing; before him, Cora winced slightly, then turned around to glance at him. He took his phone out of his pocket, silencing his ringer, which was at a frequency high enough that only werewolves could hear it. He read Stiles’s text to him as Cora turned back around again, looking distractedly at the teacher. He leaned forward and said her name. “Cora.”

            “No,” she replied, quietly and without quite looking at him. “Whatever it is, no.”

            “OK,” said Scott. “Well. I gotta go. Stiles says there’s a house fire, people trapped, maybe I can help. But, I mean, it is the first day, Derek would probably want you to-”

            Before he had even finished his sentence, Cora picked up her backpack from beside her seat and got up and walked out of the room, without so much as acknowledging the teacher. With a sympathetic look towards the rest of the class and a mumbled, “Um, sorry,” when he passed the teacher, Scott followed her. “Hey, um,” he began, when he caught up with her, “I’m kind of being serious when I say maybe you should stay here…”

            “Where is it?” she asked, without looking at him.

            “It’s – not far from here. Stiles said-”

            They exited the school, and instantly both recoiled; Scott coughed slightly. An acrid stench stung the inside of their nostrils, although there was no visible smoke. “I’ve got the scent,” she said. “See you there.”

            She took off.

            When she arrived, she hung back at first, watching the house, the flames flickering. She heard the burning roar of the fire consuming everything, eating it away, and she could hear crying coming from inside. Something turned in her belly, and for a second she thought she’d be sick. With a deep breath, full of the black smoke billowing from the house, she stilled herself.

            She went in quickly through the back. Isolated the crying, made it so she couldn’t hear the crackling, popping sounds of destruction. She followed it better than the firemen could, getting through the house faster than they possibly could have. She stayed low, but half a minute in she realized she couldn’t breathe anymore, and so she didn’t. The heat was blazing and intense, and one miscalculated movement led it scorching across her side, the pain of it bringing a flash of white and then – and as much as she fought it, it snuck into her head, lodged there irremovably – a woman’s face, blackened and burned by the fire, an eerie echo of her mother’s beautiful countenance.

            She surged forward. Already she could feel the burn on her side healing. The crying was that of a girl, she could tell, and she – she remembered the feel of flames flickering across her skin and the smoke in her lungs and the power of the pain faded her vision slightly but then-

            One more door: she broke it with a kick, and didn’t have time to look at the girl, she only took her in her arms and carried her out of the house, through the back, lying her in the cool grass, where there were no firemen yet. Cora knelt beside the girl, and the sounds of the burning house filled her ears.

            Suddenly, there was a hand on her back. “Cora,” said Stiles, “oh my God, you need to get out of here-”

            “Is she OK?” she asked, her voice faint. “I can hear her breathing.”

            “Yeah,” said Stiles, “OK, yeah, she’s breathing, but unless you want to explain to a bunch of firemen why a seventeen-year-old could just run into a burning building – my dad’s trying to get you a second but come on, let’s _go_.”

            He took her arm, and this time Cora did not protest; he held onto her tightly as they ducked through some of the forest behind the house, and he brought her to his Jeep, opened the door, allowing her to climb in. Glancing around them, he got in the other side, then started the car.

            “Where are we going?” asked Cora, blinking slightly.

            “I dunno,” replied Stiles, his eyes darting along the road. “My house, I guess.”

            “Take me back to school.”

            “Uh, no.”

            “Derek asked for _one day_ -”

            “Yeah, OK,” said Stiles, “but I’m pretty sure your brother would be even _less_ cool with you going back in the state you’re in right now.”

            She shot a dangerous glare towards Stiles. “I’m fine.”

            With a little roll of his eyes and sarcastic shake of his head, he said, “I didn’t mean all your mental issues with people dying in fires, which I’m sure, by the way, before you bite my face off, are totally valid and, like, a serious thing, but I just mean-” he glanced at her, “you may be fireproof, but that don’t mean your clothes are.”

            For a second, she watched Stiles, something like confusion on her face, and then she glanced down at her body and said, “Oh.” Where she had been burned, down the length of her right side, her clothes were either charred and blackened, or burned off completely.

            There was a pause, an awkward silence filled only by the sounds of the Jeep driving on. “So,” said Stiles finally, “how was your first day?”

            It was not the first time that Cora had been in Stiles’s room, but, Stiles tried not to think about, it was the first time a girl even partially unclothed had been in his room. He kept his eyes either averted or focused on her face, opening his drawers.

            “We don’t really have any lady clothes,” he said, “but I have, like. You know. Shirts and stuff. That you can totally put on.”

            She didn’t look at him; she had moved to the window, looking out at the mid-afternoon. It was bright and unusually sunny, so far removed from the fire that still flickered around the edges of her memories.

            “Jeez,” muttered Stiles awkwardly, “what is with me and getting Hales into my clothes…?”

            Cora glanced back at that, an eyebrow raised.

            In lieu of an explanation, Stiles said, “Long story. Anyway.” He gestured to his drawers. “Clothes. It’s probably not much use to go back to class now either, you get out in like fifteen minutes anyway.” He paused, then asked, “Do you want to call Derek, or should I?”

            “Don’t,” she said, turning around to look at him. She watched him, her eyes dark. “Where’s Scott?”

            “He said he was gonna go to the hospital. See if the girl’s all right.”

            Cora nodded, as if considering this. “OK,” she said.

            There was a silence.

            Then, sounding utterly unimpressed, she asked, “Are you just going to stand there while I take off my clothes, or…?”

            “Oh, right,” said Stiles. “Um, yeah. OK. I’ll be right outside. Just. Let me know if you need anything.” He slipped out of his room, closed the door, and leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

            There were the sounds of fabric rustling from within. Stiles said nothing, staring down at the carpet in front of him. After a minute or so, he called through the door: “Sorry it was me. I mean, and not Allison or Lydia or something. Or Isaac. Or pretty much anyone. I know you don’t really like me. Which is fine! I didn’t like your brother when he first showed up. To be honest I didn’t really like you either. And you still don’t like me, so hey. Works out.” He glanced at the door. “Anyway. I have a habit of showing up at crime scenes, and I thought you’d be there.” He paused, and looked back to the floor before him. “I mean, I get it,” he said. “House fires. Kind of your thing. I’d be that way, I guess. I mean, I just said - I kind of am," he finished, lamely.

            There was a silence. Stiles didn’t say anything for a few moments, his eyes on the floor. And then he snapped out of thought, frowning slightly.

            “Cora?” he called through the door. “You OK?”

            There was no reply. He opened the door: his room was completely empty, a gentle breeze coming through the window, left wide open.

            He let out a long, defeated sigh, then fell onto his bed, too tired to care about where she was going.

            Not long after, in small hospital room, Scott stood over a girl’s body. Cora stood across from him, and he kept glancing in between her and the girl on the bed. Melissa McCall stood at the foot of the bed, holding a clipboard with a chart on it.

            Cora asked quietly, “What’s her name?”

            “Sam Lewis,” answered Melissa. “She’s sixteen. Sophomore in high school. Lived here with her parents for years now.” Melissa hesitated, looking at the girl pityingly. “I’ve seen her in here before, a couple of times."

            Scott looked up at his mother. “Her parents…”

            She bowed her head slightly. “They were killed in the fire. And - not to speak ill of the dead - but, really, she's probably better off without them."

           Cora asked, “Is she going to be OK?”

            “Yes,” answered Melissa, nodding. “Luckily you got her out of the place before any permanent damage. She’s in good shape.”

            Without saying anything, Cora nodded.

            Melissa looked at her son, then at the other girl in the room. She knew Cora was a Hale, and she’d lived in Beacon Hills for a long time. She could remember the night Peter Hale was rushed into the ER, the dull, dazed look in eyes that should have been electric with pain. She could remember Derek and Laura Hale sitting by their uncle’s bed, and she remembered going home and holding Scott tightly that night. She said, “I have to get back to work,” and Scott replied, “Thanks, Mom,” and she left.

            There was nothing for a moment, and then Scott asked, “You OK?”

            She nodded. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice very soft. “I’m…glad I got her out.”

            Scott said nothing, and the moment seemed to pass. Reaching up to rub his head, he glanced up at her, then asked, “Isn’t that Stiles’s shirt?”

            It was almost twenty minutes past the time school ended that Isaac came out of the building, spilling out onto the few steps in front of the school. When Derek called his name, he looked up, blinking his big, round eyes.

            “You know where Cora is?” asked Derek, and he wasn’t even trying to hide his concern anymore.

            “Um,” replied Isaac, “no. I saw her at lunch. She seems like she was doing OK. I guess.”

            “Is she still around?” pressed Derek. “Did she leave?”

            “I don’t know,” said Isaac, shrugging, adjusting the backpack on his shoulder. “I know she had class with Scott, but I haven’t seen him since lunch either.”

            Derek didn’t say anything, but looked up at the building.

            Isaac watched him for a moment, then took pity on the poor guy. “I don’t think she’s in trouble,” he said, leaning in slightly, lowering his voice. “But she definitely is a high school student now, and, so, you know. Maybe she’s not really a fan of you hanging out here to pick her up like you’re her dad or something.”

            Derek didn’t reply to this either. “OK,” he said. “Let me know if you hear from her.”

            “Right,” said Isaac, glancing away, at the other teenagers leaving the school. “Because that’s likely.”

            But Derek was already walking away. He took out his cell phone, dialed a number.

            Someone picked up. “Derek?”

            “Scott. Is Cora with you?”

            “She just left.”

            “Where are you?”

            “The hospital.”

            Derek got into the car, slamming the door shut behind him. “The _hospital?_ ”

            “Oh, everybody’s fine! Cora saved a girl, actually. We were just checking up on her.”

            “Where is she now?”

            “Um, the girl’s here at the hospital probably until she wakes-”

            “I mean Cora.”

            There was a pause. “I don’t know,” he said. “I figured she’d go back to you?”

            Derek almost swore, then didn’t. “If you hear from her,” he began, but he didn’t even have to finish.

            “Yeah,” answered Scott. “I’ll call you.”

            Hanging up the phone, Derek threw it into the seat beside him. It was so like Cora to do this. Even before the fire, she’d always been prone to wandering off, being by herself. Maybe that was why she hadn’t been there, that night. He doubted she’d go so far as to run away, or even get out of town, but he didn’t like not knowing where she was. She was seventeen years old and, as always when he thought of this, there was a painful pang in his heart. She wasn’t even as old as he had been, at the time of the fire.

            The car was useless. He left it on the side of the road and headed out into the forest. Had he still been her Alpha, it would have been much easier to track her, but now that he was no longer, everything seemed slightly dimmer and duller. There was an odd, unfamiliar scent stinging the sharp air of the woods, even in the mid-afternoon. It led him, reliably, to the house, where the smell intensified, hanging like a miasma about the place.

            A mist was creeping in between the dense trees. Cora was not there, but he went up to the porch anyway, the stench inundating him, so heavy and full that he could barely breathe. He reached out to touch the wooden door, but then he closed his eyes, inhaled deeply; the scent was not coming from inside the house. He left the door, his fingers trailing across the burned-out frame, and slowly walked along the porch surrounding the house.

            There, in the soft, wet autumnal ground, was a patch of freshly-turned soil. Derek’s chest went very cold. Bright gray light filtered in from the cloud-covered sky above the house, and he did not move.

            After a moment, he hopped over the railing of the porch, landing on the ground covered with falling leaves. Behind him, a breeze carried a faint sound to him, stirring the leaves on the ground. The red door on the front of the house shook in its frame, as if someone were banging hard on the door, desperate to get in.

             Slowly, Derek made his way over to the rectangular patch of dirt. Kneeling, he ran a palm through the top of the soil, his stomach feeling empty and hollow. His fingers snagged on something and a surge of sour, heated sickness rose in his throat as he lifted the woven rope, the tiny lavender flowers wrapped around stinging his skin slightly where they touched him.

            He tugged, hard, on the rope, watching the ground around him. A spiral, the rope wrapped around and around, appeared. Jaw clenched, his insides burning, he placed the rope down onto the dirt again; he began to stand up but then stopped abruptly, with an odd sense of surprise. The terror did not hit him until he glanced down.

            Soil and blood caked underneath fingernails, knuckles and palms stained the brown organic color of earth and the ugly purple of coagulated blood after death, skin so white it was translucent but the veins no longer blue, a pale hand shot out of the overturned dirt and took vicious hold of Derek’s wrist. The nails lengthened into a werewolf’s claws, digging into his skin, drawing blood, and the stench was, he finally recognized, that of death and decay.

            By the time the sun fell, Derek was far away from the Hale home.

            A girl hovered before the shell of a house, leaning against a tree, watching it but not daring to approach. It had looked, she thought, much bigger, the last time she was here.

            She didn’t know how long she had been watching the house before she heard the footsteps, the extra heartbeat heading her way. They were too soft to be Derek or one of the boys, and too precise to be merely human.

            Without looking up, Cora said quietly, “I can hear you.”

            From out of the shadows of the woods, a woman stepped out. “I know,” she said. “I wanted you to.”

            Finally, Cora tore her eyes away from the house, and dragged them over to look at the girl. Cora observed her dispassionately. Then, at last, she asked, “What are you doing here?”

            The other woman cocked her head slightly, watching Cora. Her hair was a sleek, shiny black, long and braided down her back. She had a wide, angular face, Chinese features, and irises of pure, inky black. Along the line of her jaw were a smattering of scars, like tiny pockmarks. She glanced at the house, then slowly looked back at Cora. “I heard the Hale pack was coming back to Beacon Hills,” she said, her voice soft. “You know I tend to trail your family.”

            “Go away, Grace,” responded Cora. “You don’t have a place with us.”

            “There’s too few of you,” said the other woman; she slinked forward towards Cora smoothly, more like a fox than a wolf. “You’re not a real pack at all. You could use my help.”

            “No,” said Cora stonily. “We don’t pick up Omegas.”

            There was a silence. The woman – Grace – stared at Cora. Then she looked at the house and said, quietly, “Laura would’ve.”

            “Laura’s dead,” replied Cora, staring at the woman with steely eyes. “Didn’t you hear?”

            Grace watched Cora for a long time, locking gazes with her. She had once almost been in the Hale pack; this much Cora knew. If Laura had, as was her birthright, become the family Alpha in due time, Grace would have risen to second-in-command. From nothing. From Omega. But the fire had ended that life, and Laura had left a long time ago.

            Grace’s eyes, oily black drops surrounded by rings of white, were harder than Cora had ever known them to be. But Cora did not look away.

            “I did hear,” said Grace, very gently, so quiet that Cora had to focus to hear her. “I didn’t come just for you, Cora. And certainly not for your brother.”

            She went to stand beside Cora, not quite touching her, but following her gaze up at the old house. Night had fallen, and it was dark. Grace was not tall, and Cora should have been able to take her, if she needed to, but something seemed different. This was not the girl who had so desperately ached to be a part of the Hale pack for so long.

            Her voice high and faint as the wind, Grace breathed, “I heard your uncle Peter is alive.”

            Cora said nothing.

            “I heard he killed her,” she said.

            Cora’s eyes slid from the charred remains of the house to the other woman again, to the almost-smile on her face, the fanaticism in her expression. “So you’re going to kill him?” asked Cora, echoing the softness in Grace’s voice.

            “Kill him?” repeated the other woman mildly. She shook her head. “Oh, no. Cora. That would be much too kind.”

            Grace’s fingers trailed along Cora’s back; she could feel the gentle, pointed touch of Grace’s claws.

            “No,” she said, looking up benignly at the house, her voice full of venomous pleasure.

            She said: “I’m going to destroy Peter Hale.”


	2. Coatlicue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dead are rising, walking, and waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although this fic is completed, I haven't had anyone but myself beta it, so it's still a work in progress. If you have any feedback please let me know!
> 
> Some light horror in this chapter. 2 spooky!! !!!1 !!!

Coatlicue

Coatlicue is said to have eagle talons as feet, a necklace of human hearts, and in statues her head is replaced by two snake heads. Coatlicue is viewed as a goddess of both life and death, containing within her both a womb and grave. “[She] is the mountain, the Earth Mother who conceived all celestial beings out of her cavernous womb.” 

"She is a symbol of the fusion of opposites: the eagle and the serpent, heaven and the underworld, life and death, mobility and immobility, beauty and horror.”

[x.](http://breakingprecedent.wikifoundry.com/page/Coatlicue)

-

            The night was well-lit outside the Argent home, streetlamps casting sodium-yellow light upon the residential lanes. Allison was in the house alone, her father gone to “work” – although he had not specified exactly what it was, and had loaded up the car with tools hidden in blank black cases before he left. She didn’t worry. After what they had been through together, she had learned to trust her father again some time ago.

            She sat in the living room, the TV on but so quiet it was nearly muted; mostly she was focused on her homework before her, taking notes from a history book.

            There was a clattering sound coming from the kitchen. Instinctually, Allison’s body tensed slightly. There were, undoubtedly, people and – creatures, perhaps – that might break in, could threaten her. _Try_ to threaten her, anyway.

            Out of habit, she kept knives on her all the time. Her bookbag was thrown unceremoniously beside her, and she reached into it, extracted a pointed knife, threaded her forefinger through the grip. And then she stood and, slowly, she approached the kitchen.

            There was near silence, except for the gentle whispering of the television’s sound, turned down so low that she could not make out individual voices, much less words.  The lights in the kitchen were turned off, and she slowly slid towards the threshold, squinting into the darkness. She closed her eyes, collecting herself. Then, clenching her fist around the hilt of the knife, she entered the room aggressively, simultaneously flipping on the lights.

            She glanced around. There was nothing there. Not yet lowering her knife, she looked around the room, checking all the potential hiding spots. Maybe something had just fallen. Opening the cupboards, she glanced through drawers, looking for something amiss. The only thing she could find was that a kitchen knife seemed to be missing from its holder.

            From above her, there was a loud _thud_ , like a body hitting the floor. She froze again, glancing upwards at the ceiling. Directly above the kitchen was her parents’ – her father’s – bedroom. For another moment she did not move, straining her ears to hear another other sounds. She would not call her father, or Scott, or anyone. Whoever or whatever this was, she would take care of it herself.

            Lowering her gaze, casting one more look around the kitchen, she began to move towards the stairs.

            A dripping fluid atop her hair, lining the crown of her head with something unnaturally warm. She did not move. Very slowly, she raised her fingers up to the top of her head, touched something wet and viscous there. Holding her fingers up in front of her eyes, her heart seemed to slow into stillness as she smelled the heavy, metallic scent of the blood on her hands.

            Horror rising in her stomach, roiling like a pit of vipers, she leaned her head back. Blood instantly dripped into her eyes. It stung and she tried to blink it away, letting out a little whispering hiss as it trickled down her face; as her eyes watered and washed the crimson blackness from her eyes, she stared up at the ceiling, at the stain of blood thick enough only in a single point to drip down into the floor below. The blood dripped onto her face, slit into her open mouth, and she gagged at the sudden saltiness, the stench of injury and death – whatever was in her parents’ bedroom, it would take an impossible pooling of blood to soak through the ceiling – it could not be, and yet the red-black liquid fell in a syrupy stream now, coating Allison’s hair, sticking to her skin. Panic hit her sharply, knocking the breath out of her lungs as she struggled, tried to move, but the stream seemed more like a length of liquid rope, and it trailed across her neck, and she raised her hands to bat it away but the blood was intangible to her touch, real only in its tightening hold around her throat. The blood poured into her mouth, smothering her breath, suffocating her; a gentle tug pulled her upwards, to the tips of her toes, the blood burning like a noose around her neck-

            There was a sudden resounding knock, a sound too mundane in the awful terror of the moment. The blood disappeared, the heat erasing suddenly, leaving the scorched skin around her throat searing in phantom pain; Allison gasped and fell to the ground, chest heaving with breaths. Eyes wide, no longer obscured by blood, she lifted her head, watching across the room. The sound had not come from the front door, but from the door to the garage, to the cars and the weapons and, Allison knew, the entrance to the basement. There was not another knock.

            Slowly, Allison got to her feet. The stench was no longer there, but the inside of her nostrils and the back of her throat still stung. She took an unsteady step towards the garage door.

            As she passed the mirror in the hall leading to the door, she peered into her face. Her cheeks were pale, and there were no marks around her neck. But her lips were stained a deep reddish pink, as if rubbed raw, as if from a kiss. Her tongue flicked across her mouth, and as it slid across her teeth her mouth tasted coppery and red.

            She looked to the door again, her eyes flickering down to the crack at the bottom of the door. White artificial light lined the threshold, and her heart seemed to pump too hard in her chest. A flicker across the light; a shadow cast, as if someone stood behind the door.

            She tore her gaze away and the moment she looked at the mirror again she felt lips brush against her ear and she heard the commanding, dangerous voice of the only woman in the world who could hurt her, and a drop of blood trickled down a white forehead from a symbol carved in pale flesh, and Allison opened her mouth in a scream that would not come as her mother’s fingers dug into her sides and the Argent matriarch with short hair dyed red with blood, and skin paler than death itself hissed, “ _Allison_.”

            The scream finally came, bubbling up from the depths of Allison’s body, burning past her heart, scorching her throat and shattering into nothingness as the specter disappeared, and Allison was left standing in her dark home, lungs pumping like bellows, heart lodged in fear at the hollow dip below her neck.

\-----

            “ _Derek. Derek_.”

            There was a hollow, cold emptiness inside of him. He could feel it; he could see it, spread out before him, vast and never-ending. It was empty except for shadows, for figures without names. With names that had died with their final breaths.

            “ _Derek_.”

            Claws dug into his flesh, and an arrow shot straight through his heart, and a deep, bleeding wound on the back of his neck – a spine broken in a gesture of mercy, with words wept against his ear like love – and then firm hands on his shoulders, shaking him, and, with a great, gasping breath, he awoke.

            His hands gripped her wrists, his claws extended, and he could feel warmth where they drew blood. His eyes flashed a bright blue for one moment, and his sister stared at him, hands at his shoulders, no trace of fear in her gaze.

            She let go of him. Her hands hung there, fingers spread open, until he realized where he was and let go of her in return. The icy blue faded from his eyes, and he closed them again, leaning back in bed. Cora stood up.

            There were so many things she could say. Derek could feel the questions on the tip of her tongue – more than that, he could feel the judgment bleeding from her lips, dripping down her chin. He used to be stronger. He was not sure that she knew this.

            Letting everything else slip away unsaid, burrowing into whatever depth she dug inside of herself, Cora said lamely, “I need a ride to school,” and left the room.

            Derek didn’t move at first, the images and sensations of his dream coming back to him, lingering on his skin like open wounds. Throat dry, head pulsing, he reached around, stretching his arm, brushing his hand down the back of his head, down his neck-

            He brought his hand back before his eyes. The tips of his fingers fingers were dotted with dark blood, lining his fingerprints, that of a relatively fresh wound beginning to clot. He looked up at the door Cora had closed behind her, and felt warm blood leak down his back.

            In the car, he drove slowly, the back of his neck hastily bandaged and hidden from Cora by the collar of a jacket. She said nothing during the drive, curled up into the side of the seat. “Did you hear about that fire?” she asked, her eyes threading along the horizon. When he didn’t answer, she looked up. “Derek?” she asked.

            He finally glanced at her, blinking. “What?”

            “There was a house fire, in town. Did you hear anything about it?”

            “No,” he said shortly.

            She looked out the windshield. With urgency in her voice, she began, “Derek-”

            He slammed on the breaks, his hands shaking on the wheel, turning to her with wide, alert eyes. “What?”

            She met his gaze, confusion reflected in her eyes. Pointing behind them, she said: “You missed the turn.”

            There was silence between them, broken by the morning sounds outside the car. Someone behind them honked, then drove around them.

            “Right,” said Derek, and he reversed the car, then turned around in the middle of the road. Cora only watched him, holding her backpack tightly in her hands, concern in her eyes.

            “Are you OK?” she asked. “Should you be driving?”

            “I’m fine,” he said.

            “Are you sure? I could…call Stiles, I guess.”

            “I thought you didn’t like Stiles.”

            “I don’t. But you look like you shouldn’t be behind the wheel right now.”

            “I’m fine,” he repeated, with finality. “Today, can you try to _not_ ditch school?”

            She retreated slightly, slipping into a shell, raising a wall Derek hadn’t meant to erect. Holding her backpack to her chest, legs bent up, taking up as little space as possible on the seat, she said icily, “I’ll try. If you could learn to stop whimpering like a baby every time you have a bad dream.”

            The venom in her voice burned him. “Excuse me?” he asked, his voice hard, forcing her to say it out loud.

            With a sigh, she continued, “You heard me. You’re a grown-up, Derek. I know you’ve never been all that good with responsibility, but maybe you should start trying to act like it.”

            Derek didn’t say anything. He took a moment, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. Quietly, he asked, “I am driving you to school, aren’t I?”

            “Like I said. Stiles could manage that. I mean, I don’t like the guy, but at least Scott can handle a pack. Without killing them all, that is.”

            There was an abrupt screeching noise as Derek stopped the car, his face pale, his knuckles white on the wheel. He did not look at Cora, and she did not look at him. They didn’t move. Cora held her chin up defiantly, waiting for something. He could taste her dare in the space between them, her desperate longing. _Hit me_ , she said. _Just try and hit me_.

            He shook out the color begging to edge into his eyes, and slowed the beating of his heart, which he knew she could hear. Cora was his sister before they were members in a pack, and he no longer had the authority to discipline her. _Hit me_. She finally turned to look at him, although he refused to meet her gaze, to recognize the demand she gave him. _I dare you_.

            “You want Stiles to drive you?” he asked, infinitely mundane, finally turning to look her in the eyes. “Fine. You call him. Right now.”

            She looked back at him, cocked her head slightly. But she did not take out her phone.

            Derek looked back out before them. “Right,” he said, moving the car again. “I thought so.”

            They drove the rest of the way to school in silence. When they finally arrived, he stopped by the curb, and she looked out the window but did not move. “I don’t want this,” she said, her voice wistful.

            “You’ve been through a lot worse.”

            “You don’t have to remind me.”

            He watched her, the deep lines in her face. There was, he noted, no fear there.

            Grimly, she said, “I still don’t see why we can’t just leave. There’s nothing for us here. No pack, no family. I barely have you.”

            “Just go.”

            “Derek,” she said, looking back at him, her face expressionless. She met his gaze with empty eyes. She said, “I used to think a lot more of you.”

            Tearing his own gaze away and shaking his head, he muttered, “Laura, I don’t want to argue with you.”

            He froze. Beside him, he could all but hear Cora’s body tense, her eyes widening. Her shoulders retracted, back tightening, as if shrinking. She stared at him.

            “Cora,” he said, closing his eyes tightly, then opening them again. “I’m… You know what I meant.”

            She looked around. There was something almost helpless about the way she blinked, the way she glanced out the window again. And then she opened the car door and got out, and didn’t look back. The door slammed behind her, and Derek was left with an impenetrable, sick feeling in the bottom of his stomach.

            School went slowly. She was there, physically, but she was not present. At lunch, she seemed to disappear; when Scott mentioned it, there was a slight look of worry in Allison’s eyes, but after a few minutes, Stiles pointed out that Isaac wasn’t there either. That eased the concern in Scott’s chest, but Allison never quite stopped glancing around, kept exchanging glances with Lydia. “Whatever,” said Stiles, shrugging. “So she sucks at being a regular person. That just means she really is Derek’s sister.”

            “She’s really alone,” said Allison. Something in her voice seemed almost hurt that Stiles would say this. “And she’s our age. We should be trying to help her.”

            “I did,” replied Stiles indignantly. “I gave her some clothes.”

            Lydia let out a little noise. “She _would_ take your clothes. Poor girl.” With a sigh, she leaned back in her seat. “She dresses like she’s in a particularly unsexy lumberjack porno.”

            At the look on Stiles’s face, Scott immediately said, “ _Dude_ ,” and Stiles shook his head, rolling his eyes. He said, “Right, because you two sitting there and talking about her like she’s six years old is _so_ nice. At least I treat her like a human being. I’m mean and sarcastic to _everybody_.”

            “Fine,” said Allison, “but I get the impression Cora could do with a little bit of kindness. So you could try just a _little_ more, Stiles.”

            “Yeah, OK,” said Stiles, and he sounded almost resentful. “As soon as I get a shred of evidence that she’s anything more than a permanently angry werewolf, then sure. But I don’t think she’s looking for somebody to hold her hand.” He glanced down at the table. He could remember her eyes when Peter had told them about her brother, and he could remember how vulnerable she looked in the hospital bed. He had, however, forgotten what it felt like to touch her lips with his. In the panicked frenzy of the moment, adrenaline had killed the memory of their mouths together, inflating her lungs with oxygen from his own. His head moved in a slight nod. “Nah,” he said. “If someone tried to hold her hand, she’d probably just rip it off.”

            A few miles away, Cora was sitting beside a hospital bed, her hands lying flat and useless on her thighs, staring hard at the face of the girl lying on the pillow.

            Isaac leaned against the wall by the door. He glanced up at the clock before the bed, then said, “We need to get back to school.”

            “Just give me a second,” she said, her voice very quiet, glancing up at him with sharp eyes, then looking back at the girl. Isaac glanced around the room, anywhere but Cora’s face. He wished he could give her more privacy, but he was unsure he wanted to leave her alone right now.

            Slowly, she raised a hand. Isaac watched her, his eyes half-hooded, arms folded across his chest. But then she lowered her hand, shaking her head, and she stood up, sweeping her long hair back. “You’re right,” she said, without looking into Isaac’s eyes. “We should go.”

            Neither of them said anything as Isaac nodded, turning to open the door. And then from behind them came a faint breath, like a word or a name left unspoken, and Isaac saw the way Cora’s body caught, as if she could no longer take another step; he saw the unbelievably graceful way her head snapped back, her eyes open and steely as she looked at the girl. But she did not move towards the bed, only stared.

            “Isaac,” muttered Cora, her voice very low. “Give me a second.”

            His big eyes slid from her to the girl on the bed. “I don’t think that’s a really good-”

            When her gaze snapped back to him, her teeth were bared, and she let out a threatening, commanding growl. He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do, and then, without looking back, he left.

            Cora looked back to the girl on the hospital bed. The girl moved again, her head swaying back and forth, eyes barely open. Slowly, Cora moved towards her, back to where she had been sitting. On the bed, the girl made more sounds, almost like a whimpering, and with distaste, Cora heard the whining of her brother during the night echoing in her ears, filled with distress and genuine pain, so like this girl’s. A red-hot needle of guilt punctured her heart when she thought of the repulsion she felt towards her brother, and the ache and sympathy she felt for this girl. She wondered when she had stopped feeling that for Derek, but then she didn’t think about that, because she knew exactly when.

            The girl’s eyes fluttered open. Cora’s gaze moved for just one moment to the door, knowing that Isaac would ensure she had some privacy. She leaned over the girl, who stared up around her, the wet whites of her eyes shined against her dark, ashen skin, a pallor sucking the brilliance from her cheeks.

            “Hello, Sam,” said Cora quietly.

            The girl looked at her, confusion knitted along her brow. Her voice hoarse, she began, “I’m…”

            “Alive,” said Cora, bowing her head into a nod. “At the very least.” The girl looked away from Cora’s face, her eyes welling up with tears. Cora leaned in and whispered, “My name is Cora Hale. I can help you.”

            “Help me?” whimpered the girl – Sam. “How…I’m…” she hesitated, closing her eyes. Very quietly, she mumbled, “My family…”

            Cora’s insides felt tight and acidic, and the burning hot needle in her heart pulled a string tighter. “I’m sorry,” she replied, her voice soft. “They’re dead.”

            Sam began to cry, tears spilling from her eyes, dampening her eyelashes, trailing down her cheeks. Slowly, Cora lifted her hand, placed her fingers on the girl’s wrist, nails pointed into deadly claws. She gently turned the girl’s arm over, exposing the fleshy skin of her elbow, over which Cora traced her claws. Silently, she prepared her next words. She knew how to draw them in, how easy it was to convince someone who’d lost everything that the only way to keep on living was with place, with belonging, with power. Barely opening her mouth, she almost began to whisper, but the girl spoke over her.

            Cora’s eyes flashed up, her touch hardening on the girl’s arm, as Sam cried lowly, “Thank God. Thank… thank God.”

-

            After Isaac took Cora back to school, he left; a new school year, a new job, and he’d been working in the local grocery store for less than a month. A few hours into his shift, he stood behind rows of milk and cheese and other dairy in the fridge, restocking, pushing items forward, setting them facing the front.  


            He shivered in the chilled room, breathing on his hands, then continuing, finishing up the last few items. Pushing the cart he’d been using towards the door, he started to leave, but then stopped, his gaze snapping back behind him.

            From the tall, heavy, chrome metal door of the freezer, there was a gentle, resounding, metallic knock.

            He waited for another sound, but none came. Glancing around at the cold, sterile walls, he took a few unsteady steps towards the door. He stood there before it, listening. “Hey,” he called. “Is anybody in there?”

            Nothing. His hands hovered on the lock of the freezer door, waiting. After another minute of silence, he suddenly became aware of how profoundly cold he was, and he shook his head, heading back to the cart. There was nobody there.

            Inexplicably unsettled, he pushed the cart towards the door.

            Fingers like ice clamped around Isaac’s throat, pulling him backwards, so cold it sent everything in his body up in alarm, and the coat could not protect him – his teeth chattered, shivering, the visceral physicality of his body’s reaction enough to send his heart up into his mouth. The hands at his neck pulled back sharply, locking an elbow around his throat, tugging him backwards, off his feet – he struggled, desperate to cry out, to call someone to help but the sinking feeling in his stomach, that which he had not felt in a long time, told him, as always, that no one was listening. Before him, he could see a hand pressing around him, and there was a symbol carved into the flesh, something that barely registered in the debilitating fear of the moment.

            He could feel the man’s face pressing against the side of his, cold as if carved out of crystalline ice, and he could hear the hatred and disgust packed into two simple syllables – an insult, a degradation, stamped into the letters of his name.

            His father pressed ice-cold lips against his ear and hissed, “ _Isaac_ ,” and before the oxygen was crushed out of Isaac’s lungs, spots flickering in his vision, the pressure was gone, and Isaac was alone.

            Slowly – terrified – he crumpled, clutching his knees to his chest, whimpering slightly, eyes closed tightly shut against the pain and the cold.

            Derek was there to drive Cora home that day – and so, he was relieved to see, was she – although he didn’t stick around. The car allowed him to focus on something, to cling tightly to being human. And being around Cora became…difficult. It was no longer a matter of the weary respect hovering between them, but it was looking into her eyes and thinking a different name. It was how much her long hair resembled her sister’s, and how the pointed, jagged outline of her jaw always reminded Derek of their mother.

            It was dark night by the time Derek had relented, and was returning to his sister. If, he thought, she was still there. No one anchored her here anymore. Not even, he thought bitterly, himself.

            He slammed on the brakes, his heart pumping. He stared with wide, stricken eyes peering into his rearview mirror. Wrenching the wheel around, he skid onto the side of the road, then got out of the car. He stared at the figure before him. The shallow wound at the back of his neck stung, and he blinked, and when he looked again – yes. There was only one woman standing there. As unlikely as it was to see her again, it was not impossible.

            Derek, standing behind the car door, did not advance towards the woman. They were so far apart that a normal human would barely have been able to hear him, but when he called to her, she heard him clear as day through the silent night.

            “Grace,” he called. “Why are you here?”

            She didn’t answer right away; even from the distance, he could see her eyes glinting, burning. “I heard,” she said, just quiet enough that even Derek could hardly hear her, “the Hales were back in town.”

            Derek didn’t answer right away. He glanced around, the back of his neck stinging in the cold. “I’ve been around for a while now,” he replied, meeting her gaze again.

            She blinked slowly, shaking her head. Her hands were tucked into jacket pockets. “No,” she said softly. “I heard a Hale I actually gave a damn about was back in town.”

            At this, Derek did not move. And then he closed the car door and moved towards her, with no hurry or rush, no sprinting fury. He simply crossed the distance between them and watched her not flinch as he approached her, so close she could feel the heat emanating off his body, smell the sour stink of lycanthropic sweat beading on his brow. He could see the tiny round marks along her chin and jaw, halfway between freckles and scars. Lowly, staring down straight into her eyes, his voice no more than a breath, he began, “If you so much as  _touch_  Cora-”

            “I have no interest in  _touching_  her,” she replied scathingly. “Laura would be so ashamed of your-”

            “ _Don’t_  say her name.”

            His eyes sparked a bright, icy blue, wide and piercing. Grace stared at him with eyes that did not change color, and then she lowered her head slightly, acknowledging him. Quieter now, she continued, “I’m not looking to steal her away from you, Derek. I never wanted to do that.” She said nothing. The sounds of the wild night echoed around them, and then she lifted her gaze, meeting his with one glinting eye. Lowly, she told him, “I think you were the one who did that to me.”

            Before she had even finished her sentence, he was shaking his head, lips pressed tightly together. “I don’t have time for this,” he muttered, looking back up at the road. “If you expected Laura to choose  _you_  over the only family she had left-”

            “I didn’t,” she spat, suddenly venomously. “I wouldn’t. She left me with nothing, Derek, but I don’t give up so easily.”

            “She’s dead,” said Derek bluntly. “What do you want?”

            “Revenge,” she whispered. She reached out, planted her clawed fingers along his chest. He took her wrists with his hands and removed them.

            “Try and kill me,” he said, his voice low. “You know I’m not Alpha anymore. But, even still, there’s no way I couldn’t take an Omega.”

            Her lips contorted into a snarl and she released a low hiss, more like a cat than a canine. She tore her wrists from his grip and one hand went to his throat; before he realized what happened, she lifted him up until he was on the tips of his toes, her arm fully extended. She bared her teeth in a sick, ugly growl from deep in her chest, and Derek’s eyes widened as her claws dug into his throat, and her eyes shone with color.

            “Maybe,” she growled, her eyes a deep, crimson red. “But I’m not an Omega anymore.”

            Her grip loosened on his throat, and, from nowhere, Derek suddenly caught the strong scent of other wolves, creeping out from the darkness of the woods. His heart pumped loudly, resounding in his ears and, he knew, theirs, as well. With an emphatic, threatening growl, Grace threw him to the ground, her pack advancing on them. He coughed, his throat and lungs searing in pain, and then looked up at her, the unmistakable animalistic power hovering about her. Saying nothing, she must have given an invisible sign for her pack to stop, because they moved no further. Besides Grace, he counted five others, mostly female.

            As he began to assess the odds of his getting out alive, and wondering if his last words to his little sister would be ones of pain and the rushed inability to express what he knew her should be able to say – Grace knelt down before him, eyeing him carefully.

            “Listen to me, Derek,” she began, her voice low. “I am coming to you out of respect for your relationship with Laura. She cared about you far more than you understand.” She paused, said nothing; Derek met her gaze defiantly, unwilling to look away, refusing to allow himself another hacking cough, desperate to catch his breath. “So,” Grace breathed, “I’m giving you the option to help me hurt her killer as much as we can. To hurt him so badly he will be begging for death. Worse than he ever was after the fire. You remember him, you remember how he didn’t have to feel the pain – how he fell into a state which made it so he wouldn’t feel anything.” She watched him hungrily. He dropped her gaze, and she ducked her head, seeking to take it again. When he did not look back at her, her hand shot out, taking hold of his chin, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were wide and compassionate and the color of mottled blood. Sympathetically, she whispered, “You remember how much you  _envied_  him.” She leaned in, so close their noses almost touched, and, with a wild gleam in her eyes, she breathed, “Let’s  _rip_  that away from him, Derek. Let’s make sure he can never  _not_  feel the pain, ever again.”

            She stared at him. And then, faster than he could move, she darted forward and clamped her teeth on his ear, incisors digging into his skin, drawing blood. Even as he winced, clenching his jaw, she retracted, smiling at him. The blood on her lips matched the scarlet of her eyes.

            Derek said, “No.”

            The smile disappeared. Her voice hushed, she asked, “Excuse me?”

            “We need Peter,” Derek said defiantly. “I’m not letting Cora lose any more of our family.”

            Grace blinked at him uncomprehendingly, then stood up, pulling away from him. “Derek,” she said, “Peter  _killed_  your family.”

            “We have him under control,” replied Derek.

            “He’s your Alpha,” said Grace pointedly. “He’s exactly where he wants to be. He’s got you pinned underneath his thumb. I could end that, with your help.”

            “No,” repeated Derek, getting to his feet. “I know why you’re here. You don’t know where he is. There’s no other reason why you’d come to me first.”

            She stared at him, expressionless but displeased.

            “I won’t help you,” said Derek firmly. “And you can kill me for it, but Laura would never have forgiven you, if you did.” He paused, staring at her. “And I don’t think you could live with that.”

            “You’re making a mistake,” said Grace.

            He watched her for a tense moment, saying nothing, but a trace of amusement entered his gaze. With some degree of pride, he could detect the intense dislike reflected in her eyes. Softly, he said: “Prove it.”

            And with that, he turned around and began to walk back to his car. The pack did not move. Just as he reached out to take the handle of the car door, one of the Betas shot forward, slamming her hand into the top of the car, leaving a sharp dent there. Legs halfway bent in a defensive crouch, she snarled at Derek, her golden eyes sharply contrasting with the deep black of her skin.

            From behind Derek, Grace called, “ _Jaz_ ,” sharply. The werewolf growled again at Derek, and then removed her hand from the car, backing away.

            Derek looked behind him. Grace stood there, watching him.

            “Remember,” she said gently, “you’re walking away tonight because I can’t rob your younger sister of her only living sibling. I don’t care how Laura felt about you. I would kill you in a second.” She stared at him with hard eyes. Quietly, she continued, “But that girl deserves a family. And, as pitiful as you are, you qualify.”

            They stared at each other. From the trees before them, the Beta – Jaz – growled again. Derek glanced between the Alpha and the rest of them, and then, mildly, he said, “It was nice to see you again, Grace,” and then ducked into his car and drove off into the night.

            It was past midnight, and Stiles was not yet asleep. He hadn’t even bothered to go up to his room, and sat at the kitchen table, his homework lying in front of him. Hours ago, his father had sat him down and insisted he finish his work, because starting out the school year with a D average was unacceptable. Stiles hadn’t moved since then, and his homework was still not done.

            He stared at the page before him, leaning his forehead against his hands. The words swam, incoherent letters before him, and he tried to blink the tiredness out of his eyes but it wouldn’t go. The images burned beneath his eyelids – the image he saw every night when he slept – pounded in his skull, refusing to go away. It was impossible to concentrate on anything with something like that on his mind, and he had stopped trying a while ago. But he did not want to go to sleep, and immerse himself in the dream again.

            Leaning back in his seat, he stretched slightly, glancing at the clock. It was only a few hours until he had to get up and get to school. Briefly, he weighed the prospect of pulling an all-nighter, but he could not force himself. He was too deeply exhausted to eschew sleep any longer, no matter how disturbing his dreams may be.

            With a small sigh, he closed the textbooks before him, thoroughly unsurprised at his lack of productivity. There were very few things that mattered to him less than grades, at the moment. As he got up from the chair, rubbing his face, he froze.  

            There was a gentle sound from the front door. Something like a low creak, or the shunting jolt of the door’s latch. For a moment, he did not move, his heart pumping in his chest – he could feel it reverberating against his ribcage, sinking into his stomach. He tried to say something and his voice cracked, so he coughed loudly to clear his throat and asked, “Dad?” Nothing. “Hello?”

            After a second of the sound silence, he breathed again and shook his head, heading towards the stairs. He was on the third step when, behind him, he heard a single knock on the door.

            Dread slowly rose in his stomach, like the body of some great beast, like an oily, thick mass beginning to writhe. He stood on the stairs, clutching the rail, his knuckles gone white.

            And then, very slowly, hating himself and hating everything around him and everything he imagined could be waiting for him, staring in with white eyes from behind the glass of the door, Stiles turned around.

            There was nothing there, the porch empty and bathed in silver moonlight.

            Despite that, Stiles’s insides tightened, and a chill ran, slowly, up his spine, as if ice-cold needles were pricking his skin. Beneath his clothes he shivered, and when he exhaled a white puff of condensation appeared before his lips. Outside, something seemed to move in the moonlight, and his hair stood on end as if in response breath on the back of his neck. There was no discernible figure on the other side of the frosted glass, but he could not tell in the dim night.

            A shadow seemed to come alive, bending down to peer into the glass with a face that was not there, a skeletal grin of silhouette and darkness.

            Something shot into Stiles’s throat and he felt a surge of something in his body, hot and burning. The thing was gone before he could see it and something struck him hard, and he stumbled down the stairs, shooting down the hall and throwing the door wide open, peering into the darkness with painful, paralyzed eyes.

            A breeze swept through the trees outside, and other than the sounds of leaves rustling, there was emptiness. Slowly, he closed the door. He ran a hand through his hair, distressed, and then, rubbing his chilled hands together, he turned back around to head up the stairs.

            Wide brown eyes and stringy dark hair inches before his face and she whispered his name and his stomach heaved and knees buckled at the same time; there was a bleeding gash on her forehead, a symbol carved into her oily skin, and he fell hard on his knee, knocking his hip hard against the table by the door, throwing a vase to the ground. It shattered as it hit the floor and he quickly followed it, the glass digging through his clothes, pressing against his back as he fell, splayed out on the floor, the wind knocked thoroughly out of his lungs. He gasped for breath but was unable to breathe, unable to suck oxygen in through his mouth – it felt like thin fingers wrapped around his neck, like a body, light as a feather, knelt on his chest.

            The lights flickered on and someone said his name again, but it was his father’s voice. “Stiles?” he repeated, at the top of his stairs, and this time he sounded panicked. Stiles tried to respond, tried to speak back to his father but his open mouth was gaping and useless, his body not under his control.

            His father had dropped the look of fear and alarm in his eyes, but Stiles was not so far gone that he could not see the distinct stony determination there, a dead giveaway of his father’s emotion – the emotion he fought so hard to keep under wraps, because a doctor had told him a long time ago that calm and stability and emotional dependence were the ways with which to get his son back down from a panic attack, the symptoms of which he had memorized and saw now reflected in his son’s petrified eyes..

            Gently, he lifted Stiles by the shoulders, helping him sit up against the wall. And then he held his son’s hand and spoke to him firmly, reminding him that he could breathe, that everything was all right, that he was home, he was safe. The terror in Stiles’s eyes did not subside, but he kept them fixed on his father’s, frozen in fear of what he might see if he looked away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback (particularly on chapter length!) is, as always, more than welcome.
> 
> (This chapter is super dramatic - don't worry, there's humor and and levity eventually! I promise!)


	3. Medeina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dead don't wait. Derek is unwell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic descriptions of gross-out/body horror and dead bodies.

Medeina

    Unwilling to get married, a voluptuous, beautiful huntress, girl or she-wolf with an escort of wolves – “greyhounds” – Žveruna-Medeina does not protect hunters, but rather hinders them from killing... Each year the first kill was sacrificed to Žveruna-Medeina, as well as offerings for protection of domestic animals from wolves.

[x.](http://www.istorija.lt/la/vaitkevicius2003en.html)

 -

            They were sitting at lunch. Stiles’s head was laid on the table, his chin on his hands, staring moodily up at the teenagers passing by. The skin underneath his eyes was shadowed and translucent, the ugly, sallow purplish-gray of sleep deprivation. Across the room, his eyes were focused on Cora, sitting at a table alone with another girl. His lip curled slightly in an unhappy grimace, and Scott nudged him. “Dude,” he said, “you’re being creepy.”

            Stiles looked up at his friend dazedly, as if he hadn’t realized Scott was there. And then he let out a defeated little breath, burying his face in his arms on the table. “I hate everything,” he said, his voice muffled.

            “You’re cranky, man,” said Scott, shaking his head. “You need to get more sleep. What are you even doing all night?”

            “Nothing!” said Stiles angrily, looking up again. There were pink veins in his eyes, bloodshot and exhausted. “I swear to God. I’m in bed like sixteen hours a day and I’m friggin’ _beat_.” He let out a fake sob – at least, Scott thought it was fake – and said emphatically, “ _Help_.”

            “Are you sleeping?” asked Scott, with a crooked little grin. “Or when you say _in bed_ do you mean-” he glanced over at Cora, “-are you guys _finally_ -”

            “No,” said Stiles, making a face. “God, no. Gross.”

            “You like her,” said Scott knowingly, grinning at his friend.

            “ _No_. I mean I am, like, full-on pajamas, eyes closed, those stupid nature white noise CDs playing. Sleep is just making me _more tired_.”

            “Maybe you’re sick,” replied Scott, shrugging. “Didn’t Lydia have mono over the summer?”

            “That would make sense,” murmured Stiles. “If I’d been anywhere near Lydia’s mono-ridden lips in the past six months.” Stiles didn’t move for a moment, and then leaned back, letting out a groan. “Maybe it’s Cora,” he remarked, yawning. “Maybe just being around her is making me go crazy.”

            “I knew it! You _like_ her.”                        

            “No,” said Stiles, scandalized. “I didn’t mean the good kind of crazy.”

            He opened his eyes slightly, and they slid back over to where Cora sat with the girl she’d rescued from the fire. It had been over a week, and, to everyone’s surprise, she was back in school, and did not seem especially traumatized. Cora had hardly left her side since she showed up. Rationally, Stiles couldn’t blame her – he knew that the whole house fire thing was something Cora could relate to – but there was something about this girl. Something he couldn’t name, but hit him with an intense dislike.

            Leaning in towards Scott, Stiles asked lowly, “Doesn’t that _bother_ you, though? She won’t even look at us, but this random girl-”

            “Who cares?” asked Scott seriously. “If she’s making friends, I say we leave her alone.”

            “Frien _d_. Singular. She has one friend. One trauma-friend, at that.”

            “Stiles,” said Scott, looking up at his friend. “Why does it bother you so much that she doesn’t like you?”

            Stiles’s jaw dropped slightly in indignation. “ _What?_ ” he hissed. “I don’t-” his eyes wandered back to where Cora sat – he saw the softness in her face, and trailed off. “Ugh,” he sighed. “Whatever. I don’t care. _I_ don’t like _her_.”

            “Right,” answered Scott dubiously. “Just like you don’t like Derek.”

            “I don’t like-” he broke off, rolling his eyes. “OK, so the guy _grew_ on me.”

            “Give her a chance. And stop obsessing over her.”

            “I’m not obsessing.”

            “Dude, you’re kind of-”

            Abruptly, a loud scream broke through the dull chatter of the lunchroom. Recognizing the particular timbre of the wail, Stiles and Scott immediately looked around, hearts pumping: Lydia was on the floor, cowering, shielding herself from whatever was around her, screaming ferociously. The upturned plate of school lunch she’d dropped covered the floor beneath her, dirtying her clothes, but she didn’t seem to notice – she was in some sort of fit, eyes rolling around the room desperately.

            Immediately Allison was kneeling beside her, taking hold of her arms, trying to get her under control – Scott rushed to his girlfriend’s side as the entire lunchroom watched in awe and discomfort, an odd mutter spreading around. Stiles didn’t move for a moment.

            He glanced around. Cora was staring at Lydia as well, something that Stiles couldn’t quite recognize on her face. As Stiles stared at her, she glanced up, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.

            And then Lydia’s screaming started to form into words, and Stiles’s head snapped back to look at her. “ _No no NO NO_.” She began to sob, great heaving, weeping cries. “ _NO STOP LEAVE NO!_ Oh – oh _God_ , no, no…”

            “Stiles!” shouted Scott. “A little help!”

            He blinked and then something clicked in his head; he got up and went to Lydia, helping them, taking hold of her arms; she was, Stiles thought, significantly stronger than he thought she’d be. His limbs seemed loose and weak, out of his control, and Scott shot him a confused look before someone pulled at his shoulder, shoving him away, and Isaac took firm hold of Lydia’s right arm, where Stiles had been. Scott and Isaac managed to get her to her feet, and Allison took Isaac’s place, wrapping her arm around Lydia’s waist, and together they extracted her from the lunchroom, bringing her out to the hallway. Stiles, feeling supremely useless, ran ahead of them and found the nearest unlocked classroom, which they brought her into. Allison tried to sit Lydia down at a desk, but she would not let go of her friend, sharp, scrabbling fingers clinging onto Allison, scratching at her neck, babbling and sobbing incoherently.

            Allison half-sat on a desk, Lydia holding her tightly, burying her face in her chest, still crying loudly. Warily, Allison looked at the three boys before her then, carefully, she began, “Lydia…? Are you OK?” More crying. “Lydia? Can you hear me?”

            The sobbing lessened slightly. Lydia’s fingers, clenched around Allison’s body, loosened slightly. Slowly, she looked up.

            Her face was pale, the makeup around her eyes streaming down her cheeks, mingling with salty tears. Her gaze passed over them, then drifted behind the boys.

            Her voice so quiet it broke into a whisper, she asked, “Can’t you see them?”

            Allison stiffened, meeting Scott’s eyes. “See who?” she asked gently.

            “ _Them_ ,” she pressed, her eyes wide and afraid. “They’re everywhere. Oh, God. Oh, God oh God oh-”

            “Lydia,” said Scott, looking down to look back at her. “What do you see?”

            Lydia stared at him, her gaze flickering in between his eyes. Tears welled up again in hers, and she covered her mouth with her hand, pressing her face to Allison again. Allison put her arms around her friend and said lowly, “Maybe we should just go to the nurse-”

            She was interrupted by a shrill, piercing sob from Lydia.

            “ _You_ ,” she cried.

            They froze. Scott and Isaac exchanged glances.

            Lydia sobbed, “All of _you_. You’re _dead_. Everywhere. I – everywhere I look – you’re – I can see…” she dissolved into tears again, unable to finish her thought.

            As her four friends stood there helplessly, puzzled, Lydia kept her eyes shut tight, closed against the awful visions in the room: Allison, pierced by a dozen arrows, hanging from the wall, mouth wide open, pinned by the soft palate at the back of her throat. The vitreous humor of her eyes burst on her cheeks and slowly slid downwards from where the tips of the arrows punctured her cornea, sliding in all the way back to the nerve of her eye. Scott, his naked corpse lying in two pieces on the floor just beneath where he stood, intestines and internal organs splayed out between the two halves of his body, throat viciously gouged out, covered in blood. Flies buzzed around his body, darting in and out of his open mouth, swollen and black and pulsing with maggots, spilling out onto the floor. Isaac’s lifeless body was propped limply against the door, chest crushed so that ribs pierced out of his flesh, the glistening white bone grotesque and bizarrely beautiful, out of place with the ugliness of the destroyed bones of his face, visible and so white they could have been his skin if not for the unnatural, warped shape of his face, if not for the gleam of viscous blood and fluid sliding down his neck, bent at a sharp and perfect ninety degree angle. His heart lay in his pale palm beside him, and a cockroach scuttled over it, antennae waving sacrilegiously, ugly and profane as it spiraled up Isaac’s arm.

            Directly behind Scott, on the desk behind which a teacher would sit, a small, emaciated body crouched, arms holding his knees tightly to his chest.

            The dead – or dying, or whatever it was – version of Stiles lifted its small, brittle skull, hollowed cheekbones, shrunken lips, and stared at her with empty, white eyes. It peered over Stiles’s shoulder, a vacant, mocking echo of his own face, beleaguered and clammy, like a prophetic vision of what was yet to come.

            Allison looked up at Scott. “I’ll take her home,” she said, her voice hushed.

            “I can do it,” said Stiles suddenly, stepping forward. “I have a free period.”

            Instantly, emphatically, Scott said, “No,” and it was the kind of no that you don’t question, the kind that could make Isaac flinch – that of a True Alpha. Stiles didn’t move. Allison glanced between the three of them, and then she got up, Lydia still clinging tightly onto her.

            “I’ll help,” murmured Isaac, and he took Lydia’s other side, guiding her out of the school, to Allison’s car. Stiles and Scott were left alone in the room.

            There was nothing for a moment, and then Stiles looked up at Scott with heavy, dark eyes. “What was that?” he asked, but his voice was frailer than it should have been.

            Scott eyed his friend for a second, then said, “Dude, you’re not even up to driving _yourself_ right now.”

            “I’m fine!”

            “You’re _not_ ,” insisted Scott, taking Stiles’s arm. “This is Lydia we’re talking about, I know you’d do anything for her. And you _froze_ , man. You choked. Lydia's not the only one who's messed up right now.” He watched Stiles, slow and warily, still holding firmly on to his arm. “Get better,” he said, his grip loosening slightly. “I can’t handle seeing you like this.

            Hovering for a moment, glancing between Stiles’s eyes, he left the room, leaving Stiles standing there, his friend’s words still slowly going over and over in his head.

            After school, Cora walked along the halls; Sam was beside her. They’d hardly been apart since the girl came back to school, and it comforted Cora to have someone there who could understand her, although there was, to a certain degree, something not-quite-there with this girl that she couldn’t precisely explain.

            “Was that your friend?”

            Cora’s head snapped up, looking at the girl beside her. “Hm?”

            “That girl,” clarified Sam. “Who was screaming at lunch today. Do you know her?”

            “Oh,” said Cora. “Yes. Kind of. I mean, she’s not my friend or anything, I guess, but I know her.”

            “Huh,” replied Sam vaguely. “That one kid kept staring at you, so I thought maybe they were your friends.”

            They headed out of the school building and Cora glanced around, searching for Derek’s car. Distractedly, she asked, “What kid?”

            “Um, the cute one,” continued Sam. “He was helping that girl. He looked pretty tired.”

            “Stiles?”

            “I don’t know,” replied Sam. “Is that his name?”

            “No,” said Cora, shaking her head, making a face. “I mean, yes, that’s his name. But no. I’m not his friend. I don’t like him.” Sam was silent for a moment. Cora was still searching the parking lot. “OK,” she said. “I don’t see my brother. I can walk you to your aunt’s, I guess.” Sam’s aunt had come in from somewhere, apparently her only living relative. They were staying in Beacon Hills, but Sam didn’t seem to have an answer about how long they’d be there.

            “That’s OK,” sighed Sam. “If you’re going home, it’s kind of out of your way, anyway.”

            “It’s fine,” replied Cora, looking back at the girl. “I really don’t mind.”

            “That’s all right,” said Sam, with a shy little smile. “It’s not far. And, I mean…” she paused, and shrugged. “I guess I could do with a little time alone.”

            Cora considered this for a moment, and then nodded. “If you say so,” she said. She knew, at a visceral level, how deeply someone like Sam might need to be alone. Looking around for Derek’s car once more, she began to say goodbye, then turned back around, saying, “Wait.”

            Sam looked up at her, blinking with big brown eyes. “Yeah?”

            For a second, Cora said nothing; something seemed to pause in Sam’s gaze, on hold, as if on the edge of a precipice. Clearly and calmly, Cora asked, “So are you going to try out for cross country?”

            At this, Sam blinked. Then she said, “Um, maybe. Are you?”

            “Yes. I think so.”

            “OK,” said Sam, with a splitting smile. “Then I will too. See you around, Cora.”

            Cora nodded, said goodbye to her, and Sam headed off, away from Cora. She stood there outside the school for a moment, feeling strangely lost without her brother there looking for her. Walking down past the parking lot, she took out her phone, dialing Derek’s number, then holding it up to her ear. After one ring, though, she hung up, heading towards a familiar car.

            Striding up to the Jeep, she raised a hand and knocked on the window; the teenager in the car jerked awake, sitting up straight, blinking blearily. Stiles peered out through the glass at her for a full ten seconds. She waved expectantly, then tapped the glass with her fingernail again. Shaking his head, he quickly rolled the window down. Squinting at her, he asked, “Am I dreaming?”

            Cora raised an eyebrow. “Am I usually in your dreams?”

            A distinct blush rose to his cheeks, and she felt at once offended and also slightly flattered. “Do you need something?” he asked, blinking. He leaned out the window, glancing around them. “Did Derek send you over here for something?”

            “No,” she replied, stepping back as he hung out the window. “Derek’s not here. Can I get a ride?”

            For a moment, Stiles said nothing, and then he looked to the passenger seat beside him. He jerked his head inwards and said, “Fine. Get in.”

            She crossed around the front of the car trailing her hand across the hood, and got in, shutting the door behind her with a loud squeaking noise. Her eyes slid across the dashboard towards Stiles and she said, “I thought you had a free period.”

            He rubbed his eyes tiredly, then turned the key in the ignition, starting the car. “I did,” he replied. “I was gonna go home.”

            He turned in his seat, watching behind them as he reversed out of the parking space. A spark of amusement in her eyes, Cora asked, “But?”

            “But,” continued Stiles, annoyed, “I got distracted.”

            “You mean you fell asleep.”

            “I’m a high school senior, I’m sleep-deprived.”

            “It hasn’t even been a month.”

            “Oh my God, Cora,” he snapped, exiting the parking lot. “Can you hold off on the third degree until you’re, like, out of my general vicinity?”

            “OK,” she said coolly, relenting, leaning back in the passenger’s seat. “Fine.”

            There was a silence between them.

            And then Cora asked, “Did something happen? Between you and me?”

            Stiles didn’t glance at her, but did look into the rearview mirror. “What?”

            “Did I do something?”

            “When? What are you talking about?”

            “I don’t know,” replied Cora, looking out the window. “Just in general.” She didn’t say anything, and then continued, “It’s not like we were friends or anything. But. I don’t know.” She paused. “You did save my life, that one time.”

            “Oh, right,” said Stiles, his frustration clouding his voice. “Because basic human decency is a declaration of love now, is it? You and your stupid brother wouldn’t know somebody trying to be your friend if I hit you in the face.”

            “First of all,” she replied pointedly, without losing a beat, “you’re a complete jerk if you think I can’t make friends just because I never made friends with you. Second of all, go ahead and hit me in the face. I’d really like to see you try.”

            “Yeah?” retorted Stiles. “You know what, if I wasn’t driving this car right now-”

            “Pull over. Really. Anytime.”

            Angrily, Stiles muttered, “I can’t believe I put my mouth on your big dumb face.”

            “It almost makes up for you being totally unbearable.”

            There was a silence.

            Then Cora asked, “Where are you going?”

            “Where am I going?” repeated Stiles, still irritated. “Where do you think I’m going, I’m going to where you live.”

            “Where? The loft?” she asked doubtfully. “Derek and I are living in town now. We have an actual place.”

            “What?” asked Stiles, his voice high in surprise. “But I liked your wolf den.”

            “ _Wolf_ den?”

            “You know, dark, dingy. Highly unhygienic.”

            “Go left here,” directed Cora. “We’re renting an apartment downtown.”

            “Derek Hale,” mused Stiles unbelievably. “Living in an _apartment downtown_. These truly are the endtimes.”

            Despite herself, perhaps a little reluctantly, she let out a small laugh. “You know,” she said matter-of-factly, “I really don’t think Derek is who you think he is.”

            “What do you mean?” he asked, and his question was punctuated by a yawn. “He’s big, aggressive, angry all the time, and shockingly inadequate.”

            “OK,” replied Cora fairly. “But you treat the both of us like we’re werewolves and that’s it. We’re more than that.” She considered this, then added, “He’s more than that, anyway.”

            “Sure,” said Stiles. “You have feelings. Wow. What a revelation.”

            “Derek drives a Camaro,” she shot back, a little smirk on her lips. “I play sports, and I like math.”

            “You _like_ math-?”

            “My point is,” continued Cora, speaking over him, “we’re a lot more like regular people than you give us credit for. Turn in here,” she added, pointing to a building.

            Stiles didn’t reply to this, only pulled over and stopped the car. Other than pulling her backpack onto her shoulder, she did not move immediately, looking at him. He looked over to meet her gaze. “Yeah, well,” he replied gruffly. “I guess I haven’t had the luxury of being able to see either of you that way, what with all the ridiculous monsters trying to kill me lately.”

            She watched him, but patiently, almost as if he were a child, and then she got out of the car. “Thanks for the ride,” she said, shutting the door behind her, patting the hood of the car again as she walked around.

            He rolled down the window and called, “Cora.”

            She turned around.

            “You know what might help me see you as an actual human being?” he asked. There was a dopey look on his face, and he was all but slurring his words in exhaustion.

            Good-naturedly – maybe a little amused – she asked him, “What?”

            He turned his face sideways, tapping his cheek. “A kiss,” he said. “When your heart is actually beating, that is.”

            She actually laughed at this, and the sound was more glorious than Stiles had anticipated; he clung to the car window, suddenly feeling unsteady. With a few short strides, she’d crossed the distance between them, and her face was close to his.

            Pityingly, gazing into his eyes, she murmured, “I would. But Scott said you might have mono or something, so. Maybe some other time.” She shrugged, grinned at him, then turned around, quickly disappearing into her home.

            When Cora finally found her brother, it was the middle of the night. Moonlight filtered in through the trees as Cora pushed gently on the door, swinging it open with a loud, long creak.

            She stared into the dark house, then dropped to her knees, kneeling beside the body sitting loosely against the wall by the door. She watched him with eyes that were not unkind, and then finally she tucked her arm around her brother’s back, tugging him upwards. “Come on, Derek,” she murmured, sounding tired. “Let’s go home.”

            It sounded like he tried to mumble something in reply, but he could not quite form words, and she didn’t ask how long he’d sat alone in the empty, burned-out husk of a house.

            Cora led her brother all the way to his room, dumping him on the bed. For a moment, she hesitated – it occurred to her that she should say something, make sure he was responsive, try to decode whatever the hell was making him shiver so bad, what made the blood drain from his face and turned his voice into a panicked whisper.

            She did not. Cora left him in the room alone, and closed the door behind her.

            When she slipped back into the kitchen, there was someone waiting for her.

            For a moment, neither of them said anything. And then, quietly, every syllable soaked with fury, Cora asked, “What did you do to him?”

            Grace’s eyes were dark and round and she watched Cora intently, as if waiting for something. Her voice hushed, she replied lowly, “I didn’t do anything to your brother. I don’t care about him.” She paused, sliding towards Cora, sweeping the tips of her fingers along the table, but her gaze never tore away from Cora’s eyes. Voice hardly more than a breath, she added: “I want an answer.”

            Cora pulled away from where Grace reached out to touch her, to brush along her shoulder. She had to break eye contact, and hated herself for it.

            “I said I’d help you,” replied Cora, and no matter how quiet she could be, she knew that, if he were listening, Derek would hear her. “But our family doesn’t owe anything to you.”

            Grace watched her, unblinking. “Yes,” she said. “You do.”

            There was a silence.

            “Cora,” said Grace, cocking her head slightly, dropping her face to catch Cora’s gaze again, dragging her back up. Cora watched her defiantly. Grace seemed apathetic. Slowly, she opened her mouth and she said, “You lost a sister. I lost…everything.”

            Neither of them moved. And then, eyes glinting with moonlight through the window, faster than should have been possible, Cora lifted her hand and struck Grace hard across the face; the force of the blow threw the other woman off her balance, and she hit the wall, the thrill of malice in her eyes evaporating, turning into snarling, hateful shock.

            Without hesitation, Cora grabbed the woman’s long hair, hooking her foot around the back of Grace’s knee, bringing her down to kneel. Then she pulled Grace’s long, sleek black hair backwards, throwing Grace’s chin into the air, exposing the flesh of her pale throat, the dotted marks along the bottom of her jaw.

            Cora lowered her face level with the other woman’s chin and, calmly, she said, “I died in that house, Grace. Don’t you ever forget that.”

            There was a moment, and then Cora let her go, stepping back.

            Grace knelt there, and Cora hoped with all her heart that her hesitation was due to pain, and then she got to her feet again, shaking her hair out of her face.

            She bared her teeth at Cora in shameless smile, and she said, “I’m glad to see you’ve honored your birthright, Cora. You’re the only Hale daughter left.” She wiped her mouth, saliva dribbling pink with blood. “You deserve it.”

            She left, and Cora did not blink until the door had latched shut behind her.

-

            The next morning, Cora didn’t bother waking her brother, only glanced at the door behind which she imagined he still slept. She called Stiles and waited outside on the sidewalk until the Jeep drove up, slipping in beside him. Gruffly, she said, “Thanks.”

            “Yeah,” replied Stiles, yawning. “Where’s your brother?”

            “He’s here. Maybe he’s sick or something.”

            “No kidding,” murmured Stiles, heading back on the road. “Something’s going around.”

            She glanced at him; his skin was pale, and the bags under his eyes had never been darker. “How sick are you?” she asked. “You look terrible.”

            “Thank you,” he said pointedly, and there was no trace of exhaustion in his voice, at least. “Seriously, though, thanks for needing a ride. Or thank Derek, I guess.” Peering out the windshield into the misty morning, he added, “I would not have gotten out of bed this morning if you hadn’t called.”

            “Oh?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Do I really get you that excited?”

            “N-” he glanced at her, eyes narrowed slightly, but in something more than confusion than anything else. “I…” he trailed off suspiciously, then finished, rather lamely, “I didn’t say that.” She let out a little chuckle and, defensively, he added, “I think I actually  _do_  have mono.”

            “Then you’re infectious,” she said, looking out the window at the trees lining the side of the road. “I should’ve called Lydia.”

            “Right, because you and Lydia get along  _so_  well.” At this, she did not reply, and then she turned and looked at him, something curious on her face. It took him a moment, and then he glanced over at her. “What?”

            Shrewdly, she asked, “Why wouldn’t Lydia and I get along?”

            “Oh,” replied Stiles, glancing at the rearview mirror. “I mean. You know.”

            Cora watched him. “No,” she said. “I don’t.”

            He made a face, obviously uncomfortable. “You’re just…not like most girls, I guess.”

            “Really?” she asked. “What’s wrong with most girls?”

            “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Dude, I  _like_  Lydia, I have since I was, like, nine-”

            “Then what’s wrong with me?”

            He didn’t answer this immediately. He glanced at her, concern knitted across his brow. “Nothing,” he said, and she was taken aback by the sincerity in his voice. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

            Only the sound of the car’s running engine broke the silence.

            “Except for the whole werewolf thing,” he added mildly. “And your whole angry dark brooding Hale schtick. And the fact that your social skills are even worse than Derek’s.”

            “OK,” she said loudly, cutting him off. “I get the point.”

            The awkwardness settled between them like an animal, alive and humming. He blinked, sniffed slightly, then, attempting a significantly lighter tone, he asked, “So you going out for cross country?”

            She didn’t reply right away, as if deciding whether or not to deign this with an answer, and then finally she said, “Yes. A gym membership doesn’t quite cut it when you need to burn off full moon energy.”

            “Full moon energy,” he repeated cheerfully. “That’s cute. Better than transforming into a homicidal monster, right?”

            “You could say that,” she replied dryly.

            “I’m on the team too,” he added. “Off-season lacrosse stuff.”

            She glanced at him. “You play lacrosse?”

            “Yeah,” he replied. “Kind of.” There was a pause, and he could tell she was watching him. He glanced over and asked, self-consciously, “What?”

            “I know you’re on the lacrosse team,” she said, and she almost sounded amused. “I was making fun of you.”

            “Oh,” he said. “You’re not really good at that sarcasm thing yet, are you?”

            She rolled her eyes, looking away from him again, but satisfaction at the would-be smile on her lips lifted some of the tiredness out of his head. They got to school in silence, and he parked, turned off the engine.

            “Let me know if you need a ride again,” he said. “Otherwise I’m going home early to take a nap.”

            “I’ll work on my social skills,” she said coolly. “And get a ride from Lydia. Sweet dreams, Sleeping Beauty.”

            He looked at her with mock-surprise. “Look at that,” he marveled. “A pop culture reference. And here I was, thinking you were a real-life Steve Rogers.”

            Rolling her eyes, she opened the door of the car to get out. “I saw Disney movies as a kid,” she told him. “Just like literally everyone else.”

            They got out, and as Cora walked around the car, heading towards the school building beside Stiles, he said, pretending to be stunned, “No way. You were never a  _kid_. I can’t picture it. You’ve always been almost-legal and totally friggin’ terrifying.”

            “Don’t start with me,” she sighed, shaking her head. He grinned.

            Somebody called Stiles’s name, and Scott appeared. The look on Cora’s face changed, but only to a miniscule degree; Scott said, “Hey, Cora,” and Cora nodded at him.

            “I’ll see you around,” she said to Stiles, and then she left.

            There was an awkward pause as they watched her leave, and then Stiles reached out and punched Scott on the shoulder. “Ow,” said Scott, rubbing his arm. “Dude, I didn’t even do anything!”

            Cross country tryouts were after school; Cora and Sam headed out of the changing rooms together, wearing sweatshirts due to the cold fall air. By the end of practice, Cora had stripped off her sweatshirt, sweat glistening on her body, something raw and animalistic in her panting breaths. Sam was less affected, but had performed nearly as well. As they headed back to the locker rooms together, Cora had a grin on her face, and she pulled the ponytail out of her hair with a beaming enthusiasm. “You were so good,” said Sam, in awe, as they opened their lockers. “You’ll get varsity, no problem.”

            “I don’t care, really,” said Cora, shrugging. “Just feels good to be out there.”

            Sam sat down on the bench between the two rows of lockers, tugging the cloth headband out of her short hair. “I wish I had your endurance,” she sighed. “I’m beat.”

            “You were fine,” said Cora, shooting a glance over her shoulder at the girl. “You’re a great sprinter.”

            “I guess,” sighed the other girl, peering down at her locker.

            Cora began to take things out of her locker, then paused, noticing the stillness beside her. Sam hadn’t moved. For a second, Cora didn’t know what to do, and then she stopped and sat down on the bench beside her friend. She watched her carefully, and then asked, “Are you OK?”

            Sam didn’t look up from her hands. She mumbled, “I’ll be fine.”

            There was almost a full minute of silence; Cora hardly moved, struggling internally with what to do next. And then, awkwardly, she reached out her hand and patted Sam on the shoulder.

            Immediately Sam responded, relieving Cora of any duty to attempt more physical comfort by leaning sideways onto Cora, so much that Cora slid her whole arm around the girl’s shoulders. She leaned heavily against Cora, and her eyes were shut tight. Her voice a tight, strained whisper, she said, “Sorry. It’s just…” she hesitated, finding the words, “…every time I think I’m OK…”

            Something stung, hard and sharp like glass, in Cora’s heart. She wrapped her arms around the girl, patted her back again. “I know,” she said quietly. “I get it.” Sam didn’t quite move in her arms. Cora held her tightly. “You’re fine,” she said, sincerity seeping out of her lips, anointing the other girl. “You’re better now, Sam. They can’t hurt you anymore.” She looked down at the girl. “Nobody could hurt you anymore,” she said, very quietly. “If you didn’t want.”

            A few more moments passed in silence. And then Sam sat up, sniffling slightly. “Sorry,” she said, standing up. “I just…”

            “It’s fine,” said Cora, shaking her head. Sam turned to her locker, took out a towel, shower supplies. Cora didn’t move for a second, then got up; as she began to do the same, her phone buzzed and she glanced at it, then let out a little sigh. “I have to go,” she said to Sam. “Do you need a ride?”

            “No,” replied Sam. “My aunt’s gonna come pick me up.”

            “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            “’Bye, Cora.”

            Sam headed to the showers, and Cora collected all her things in her backpack and athletic bag, then headed out of the locker room. She held her phone in her hand, watching it, texting something out with her thumb as she opened the door with her hip, slowly heading out; she hardly noticed when the door opened the rest of the way, letting her out easily. Finishing her text and hitting  _send_ , she glanced up at whoever had opened the door for her, beginning to murmur thanks, until she noticed who it was.

            Stiles smiled at her sheepishly. “Hi,” he said.

            She watched him skeptically. “What are you doing here?” she asked, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

            “Um,” he began, mind functioning uncharacteristically slowly, “I was at home and then I remembered that cross country tryouts were today and I knew Lydia wouldn’t be sticking around and you made it sound like Derek would be out for a while so I thought maybe you’d need a ride? I guess?”

            Her gaze shifted slightly, glancing to the floor, and she couldn’t hold back a smile. “Thanks,” she said, turning to head towards the doors to the school. “But I’m OK.”

            “Are you sure?” he asked, scrambling to follow her. “Because it’s already pretty dark. And it’s pretty cold outside.” He nodded pointedly to her body; she was wearing only her athletic sports bra, her skin still too warm for the sweatshirt.

            She rolled her eyes. “I think I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m hot.”

            “No kidding,” said Stiles, and then he cringed, unable to see the smile Cora was now actively working to keep hidden. “I mean – like in  _Twilight_?”

            She glanced at him questioningly. “What?”

            “The – werewolves. Their body temperature is…” he trailed off, realizing the reference was probably lost on her. “Are you sure you don’t need a ride? I mean, I’m already here.”

            They were almost at the door; she stopped and let out a little sigh, looking over to meet Stiles’s gaze. Cocking her head to the side slightly, she asked, “Did you really come all the way back here to make sure I had a ride home?”

            He jerked his body awkwardly, in an almost-shrug. “I guess,” he muttered.

            She shook her head, and the smile finally appeared. “Did you forget the fact that I’m a werewolf?” she asked simply. “And that I am  _really_  capable of taking care of myself?”

            Another odd, jerking shrug. “I dunno. I…” he trailed off, intimidated by the look in her eyes. Lowering her voice, he finished, “…could’ve texted you first, probably…”

            “That’s right,” she said patiently, the corners of her lips turned up, a gleam in her eyes. “You probably should have texted me first.”

            She smiled at him, then turned and headed towards the door. He stepped forward – but did not reach out to touch her – and said, “Wait!” She paused; glanced back at him. “I, uh.” He cleared his throat. “I have some good news.”

            Raising an eyebrow, she said, “Really.” It was not a question.

            “Uh-huh,” he replied, nodding. Suddenly and acutely aware of the awkwardness of his body, he flexed his fingers, hands hanging uselessly at his sides, and he told her, “I went to the doctor’s after school. No mono. So.”

            She watched him. It may just have been the odd fluorescence of the lights, but there seemed to be some uncertainty there, tinged with what could have been affection. “No mono?” she repeated, and he nodded. She returned the nod and then, slowly, she sidled up to him, her hands still on the straps of her bags across her shoulders.

            “Yeah,” he breathed, as she stood barely inches across from his face. “So…I mean… if you wanna make good on that…kiss…”

            For a second she watched him slyly and then, unexpectantly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his in a simple, chaste kiss. She pulled away with a slight smirk.

            “Stiles,” she muttered, meeting his gaze cannily. “You want to know a secret?”

            “Yes,” he said immediately, eyes wide. She didn’t look away.

            Moving so close he could feel her breath on his face, she whispered, “Werewolves can’t get mono.”

            He blinked at her, confusion knit across his brow. And then, betrayed, he began, “Wait a second, you said-” and she interrupted him by her hot lips on his again, surging forward, intense and unexpected; she lifted a hand away from the straps of her backpack and hovered her palm above Stiles’s face and then, out of nowhere, he pulled away.

            Breathless, he asked, “So since I’m already here, can I – I mean, my car’s like ten feet away, we could literally just-”

            She actually laughed, and she kissed him again and he so much regretted pulling away even just for an instant, and the number of time he’d been kissed he could count on one hand, but he had  _never_  been kissed like this, and she scraped her teeth along his bottom lip and it was all he could do not to whimper, suddenly burning hot under his clothes.

            He tried to follow her mouth when she pulled away, but she spoke: “Sorry,” she whispered, “I already have a ride home.”

            “Wh-” but his protest was drowned in another kiss from which he never wanted to surface. He finally mustered up the courage to lift his own hand, reach out and put it on her waist, but retracted it instantly as if he’d been burned when his palm connected with bare skin. She laughed against his lips and shifted her body, pressing her hip against his stiff, unmoving hand.

            The odd creaking sound of the school doors opening: Stiles, lost in the moment, almost fell forward as she pulled away, turning to face the door. As he blinked through the faint haze, he looked up to see Isaac standing there, looking apologetic.

            “Um, sorry,” he said timidly, his hand still on the door, keys in his hand. Addressing Cora, he said, “You, uh. Weren’t answering my texts.”

            Cora swept her hair back. “Sorry,” she said, to Isaac. She glanced at Stiles and didn’t smile. “See you around,” she said, and then she went to the door, handing her athletics bag to Isaac as she passed him.

            Shooting a sympathetic look towards Stiles, Isaac began to follow her, but Stiles said, “Hey,” and stopped him. Isaac looked back to Stiles, who seemed speechless for a second, then demanded, “Since when do you have a car?”

            Isaac blinked. “Uh,” he said, “Derek bought it for me.”

            “Derek bought you a  _car?_ ”

            “Yeah,” said Isaac, with a shrug.

            Emphatically, Stiles said, “ _Dude_ ,” and made a face. Isaac glanced around, bewildered, then shrugged again.

            Isaac didn’t say anything until they were away from the school, driving down a long road. And then, the side of his thumb tapping against the wheel, he began, “So. You and Stiles.”

             Cora looked at him. He glanced at her and, seeing her expression, nodded.

            “OK, right,” he muttered. “Nevermind.”

            She looked back out of the window, at the mist along the side of the road. “Did you ever hear back from Derek?”

            “No,” replied Isaac. “He’s still alive, right? Something awful hasn’t happened?”

            “I’m pretty sure,” said Cora, nodding. “He’s just… I don’t know. He doesn’t like being on his own so often.”

            “I thought you said he was working for Peter.”

            “Somehow, yes,” replied Cora. “But Peter’s pretty far off the grid right now. Hiding, if you ask me.” She paused, ran her thin fingers along the backpack in her lap. “So Derek’s not around him much.”

            There was a silence. Isaac took a turn, ducking his head slightly to peer out the windshield. Poorly feigning nonchalance, he asked, “So did you turn the girl?”

            The space inside the car seemed to freeze and distill, and it suddenly became very quiet. Cora didn’t look around at Isaac, but leaned her head back against the seat. “No,” she said, truthfully. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to, Isaac.”

            He turned the wheel and murmured, “I’m not so sure about that.”

            “Only Alphas can give the bite. And like I said. Peter’s not around.”

            Isaac didn’t answer this, only stared out into the night, a troubled look in his eye.

            Cora added, “You should get to know Sam. She could use a friend like you.”

            He said nothing, although he knew exactly what she meant. His line of his lips flattened slightly, and Cora saw his expression but she didn’t say anything else. She refused to break the silence, knowing that she was right.

            A few more minutes in, Cora’s phone buzzed loudly in her bag; she took it out, and Isaac could tell who it was from the sound of her heart and the simultaneously irritated and relieved look on her face. She answered like a deep breath of air. “Derek?” Isaac could hear her brother’s voice on the other end, but he tried not to, in order to give the siblings some semblance of privacy. “No, I stayed late. Isaac’s bringing me home. Stiles took me this morning. No, it’s fine. It’s fine, it’s fine.” A pause. “How are you? Yeah? OK. I’ll be there in a couple minutes. OK. Yep.” She lowered the phone, hanging up.

            Isaac didn’t say anything at first. And then: “It’s good to hear you two getting along again.”

            Her eyes slid across the car, resting on him cynically.

            He didn’t look to meet her gaze, but he added, “I don’t like it when you fight.”

            Despite herself, something warm rose in Cora’s chest. She slumped slight in her seat. “You don’t like it when anybody fights,” she replied sourly.

            “That’s not true,” said Isaac, more cheerfully than she would have anticipated. “I like it when I fight.”

            Although she did not smile and she didn’t reply to this, the heavy air inside the car dissipated, and they both breathed easier. When Isaac came to a stop before her building, Derek was already standing there, waiting. As she got out of the car, Derek called, “Thanks, Isaac,” and he nodded, then drove away.

            Cora dumped both her bags on her brother, saying, “I can walk up a couple flights of stairs on my own, you know.”

            “I thought you’d appreciate a bellhop,” he replied curtly, shouldering her bags – although there was a shine of appreciation in his eye.

            “I do,” she agreed. “And I know you feel guilty about not driving me, so I’ll let you carry my stuff as your idea of some sort of half-hearted penance. But next time, you’re buying  _me_  a car.”

            “Not gonna happen,” replied Derek pleasantly. “You can’t even drive.”

            “Then you’re going to teach me how to drive.”

            He relented, giving a little nod. “I can do that.” They reached their apartment and she unlocked the door, letting them in. As he placed her bags on a table, he asked, “What happened to your clothes?”

            “What do you mean?” she asked, fetching a glass of water. “I came straight from practice.”

            “Practice?”

            “Cross country. I told you I was trying out.”

            “Oh. Did you make the team?”

            “Probably. They’re posting cuts tomorrow.”

            “Good luck.”

            “Thanks,” she replied, leaning against the counter, “but you’re a little late.” She sipped the water, dark eyes focused on her brother. He shifted slightly, but didn’t quite move. Certainly he wasn’t leaving. She cocked her head, watching him. “What is it?” she asked, gently.

            He looked up. It took a while, but slowly, something began to work its way out of his mouth: “Look, Cora…” he crossed the kitchen, lowering his voice. “I know things have been weird lately, but-”

            Abruptly, he broke off. She raised an eyebrow as his eyes widened and then his hand shot out, hard and unforgiving, and caught her around the wrist; her glass clattered to the floor and shattered, spilling cool water on the floor. “Derek-” she began, but he cut her off.

            Grimly, Derek said, “You’ve been with Grace’s pack.”

            “ _What?_ ” asked Cora, wrenching her arm out of Derek’s grip. “What are you talking about?”

            “Grace,” repeated Derek. “Laura’s friend. She’s back.”

            “You mean Laura’s girlfriend,” corrected Cora defiantly, rubbing her wrist. “I know. I talked to her, yeah. She was here, while you were – I don’t know, while you were sleeping off whatever was going through your head yesterday-”

            “No,” insisted Derek. “Her  _pack_. You’ve been with them.”

            “What?” asked Cora, the agitation plain in her voice, knit across her brow. “Grace doesn’t  _have_  a pack, she’s Omega-”

            “She’s not,” said Derek, shaking his head. “Not anymore. She built a pack from the ground up, from nothing. She’s an Alpha now.”

            “No,” replied Cora, looking at her brother carefully. “No, Derek, you’re wrong-”

            “I can smell them on you,” said Derek impatiently. “I can tell you’ve been with at least one of them-”

            “I  _haven’t_ ,” said Cora staunchly. “I didn’t even know Grace had a pack. I don’t believe you.”

            There was a tense silence. Then, lowering his voice even more, Derek continued, “I can understand why you might sympathize with them, but Cora, you’ve got to understand – what Grace is looking to do would only hurt us more-”

            “Derek!” she said. “I haven’t done anything! I went to school today, I tried out for cross country, Isaac brought me home. That’s it. I swear. Grace has… I mean, she’s talked to me, but believe me when I say I wouldn’t work for her. I wouldn’t let her manipulate me.”

            Derek seemed to consider this for a while, and then he turned away. Taking a small towel from beside the sink, he dropped it on the floor, soaking up where the water spilled. Cora watched him, kneeling before her.

            Softly, he murmured, “I can smell her pack on you, Cora. She used them to threaten me, I wouldn’t forget that scent. Be careful. Don’t trust so easily. OK?”

            He straightened up, collecting the larger shards of glass in his hands, looking her in the face. Her dark eyes shone, and, a hint of a smile on her face, she replied just as quietly, “When have you known me to trust anyone?”

            Derek didn’t answer this, but looked away from his sister, placing the jagged pieces of glass gingerly in the trash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, US readers! Unfortunately I don't get to see my family this Thanksgiving, but this chapter is dedicated to them - Mom (my Melissa McCall), Dad (my Sheriff Stilinski), my sister (the Scott to my Stiles), and my younger brother (the Cora to my Derek - or maybe more appropriately, the Derek to my Laura). Love y'all. 
> 
> Reminder! Feedback, particularly on chapter lengths, is much appreciated.


	4. Asaase Yaa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles falls asleep. Derek finds Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, warning for graphic body horror. Let me know if I should add the archive warning for graphic descriptions of violence.

Asaase Yaa

In the Ashanti pantheon of deities, Asaase Yaa is the daughter of the Supreme God, Nyame, the goddess of the barren places of the Earth.

According to myth, she had a long, sharp sword that could fight by itself. When she ordered the sword to fight, it slaughtered everyone it encountered. When she commanded the sword to stop fighting, it did.

One day, when Asaase Yaa left the house, her son Anansi stole her sword. When an enemy army approached, Anansi ordered the sword to fight. It killed all of the enemy forces.

However, Anansi could not remember the command to make the sword stop. With no enemies left to kill, the sword turned on his own army. When only Anansi was left alive, it killed him too. Then it stuck itself into the ground and turned into a plant with leaves so sharp they cut anyone who touched them.

The plant still cuts people, because no one has ever given the sword the command to stop.

[x.](http://luxferre.net/asaase-yaa-goddess-of-the-barren-places-of-the-earth/)

            Derek was on the phone in the morning. Cora could hear him, even from behind her door; she stopped and closed her eyes, listening to him speak. “As far as I know, she doesn’t know where you are,” he was saying, his voice low. “But don’t let your guard down.”

            “Your concern is touching.” Peter’s voice. It made Cora feel ill, sour in the pit of her stomach. “I think I can handle an Omega. Especially one as hopeless as that poor girl.”

            “I already told you, she has a pack now.”

            “Omega is Omega is Omega, Derek. Wolves don’t change their spots, and Alphas don’t come from nothing.”

            “One screw-up and she could kill you.”

            “I would love to see her try.”

            Cora knew that Peter heard the annoyance in Derek’s tone, and the fact that Peter toyed with it, playing his nephew, sent a strike of anger down her spine. “Don’t do anything," said Derek. "I’ll try to get rid of her.”

            “Let’s try not to attract too much attention to ourselves, shall we?”

            Derek hung up, gritting his teeth. Cora could hear his blood pulsing from behind her door, and she burned for her brother.

            Autumn leaked into the air of Beacon Hills, a sharp chill sweeping in from the ocean, nipping at noses and biting at the soft, raw exposed flesh of the face. Most of the students at Beacon Hills High School ate inside the cafeteria, except for two girls, sitting out on the steps of the back of the school.

            “I don’t know how long she’s going to stay,” said Sam softly, in response to Cora’s question, hunched over slightly in the cold. “And I’m too young to stay here by myself. I don’t know.” She hesitated, then said, “I don’t want to leave. But I don’t really…have anything here…”

            Cora leaned back on her hands, watching the girl beside her. “I’m here,” she said, with remarkable impartiality. “If you absolutely needed a place to stay.”

            “Thank you,” murmured Sam graciously. “But – you know. Legal stuff. I just don’t know.”

            There was a short silence. Cora looked out at the gray sidewalk before them.

            Sam glanced at her and asked, “What would you have done if your brother hadn’t stayed here?”

            The silence went on, lengthening on, stretching between them. Cora’s eyes didn’t move as she seemed to consider this, unable to find the words to express what little she could relate to the other girl. Finally, very slowly, she began, “He didn’t, Sam. I didn’t.” She paused, glanced up. “But we both came back. And I don’t regret it, either. If nothing were hard, then there would be nothing that was meaningful. No point. No lesson.” She watched Sam with expressionless eyes. “There are worse things,” she said quietly, “than being taught a lesson.”

            At this, Sam looked away. It took another minute or so of silence for Cora to realize what that could have sounded like. Her brow knit in concern, she began, “I didn’t mean that as, like-”

            “That’s OK,” said Sam, her voice quiet. “I don’t really disagree.”

            Cora looked at her, in pain.

            “But if your brother wasn’t here anymore,” pressed Sam, looking back up at Cora. “If he’d left. If you had no one left in Beacon Hills.”

            “I wouldn’t have no one,” said Cora, before Sam could continue.

            Sam watched her. “But you said your family-”

            “Family isn’t _all_ you have,” said Cora smoothly, with surprising conviction. “When I lost everyone, I…” she hesitated, searching for the right words to explain. Glancing up at Sam, she said, “If I had only depended on my family, I would’ve died. But I was strong with or without them. A lot of us,” she added, “are stronger without them.”

            Sam met her gaze. Bitterly, she turned away and said, “You don’t need to tell me I’m better off without them. I know.”

            Cora eyed the girl’s exposed wrist, the soft flesh there, and she longed to see Sam’s eyes turn golden.

            Glancing back at Cora, Sam asked, “So what would you do? If your brother wasn’t here.”

            Her dark eyes flickering between the other girl’s, Cora didn’t reply right away, her mind far away. “I don’t know,” she said bluntly. “I’d stay and help you however I could. We could stay with – I don’t know. Stiles.” She thought about it, then added, “Or my uncle, or something.”

            “Uncle?”

            “Yeah,” said Cora, shaking her head. “As a total last resort. He’s a creep.”

            “I thought you said your family-”

            “Most of my family,” said Cora, shrugging.

            “Does he look after you and your brother?”

            “No. Derek doesn’t need anyone to _look after_ him anymore. Aside from me, I guess.”

            “So,” said Sam, “you do have some family left around here.”

            “Well, sure,” said Cora fairly. “But I’d hardly count my uncle Peter as family. He’s more like this annoying jerk who shows up and gives orders occasionally.”

            Sam blinked. “Orders?”

            “Yeah,” continued Cora quickly. “He’s…weird. Whatever, I hardly even see him around anymore. He doesn’t even live-”

            The bell rang, harsh and loud. Displeased, Cora glanced behind her, and then got to her feet. “Come on,” she said dully. “We’ve got class.”

            When the school day ended, Scott and Allison headed out together, holding hands. “But then I was like,” said Scott animatedly, in the middle of a story, “dude, not even for a hundred bucks. He only had, like, six dollars, so there was no way but – anyway, that’s why Stiles was bald for like three months in sixth grade.”

            Allison laughed. “Oh my God,” she said. “So you two always were this stupid?”

            “Well, yeah,” replied Scott, with a shrug. “Pretty much.”

            “I still can’t believe you convinced him to-”

            There was an abrupt screeching noise, and then a painful metallic _crunch_ ringing in Scott’s ears, even if Allison barely noticed over the din of the parking lot. Suddenly, the dopey grin on Scott’s face dropped, and he moved forward, still holding her hand.

            “What happened?” she asked, but it became clear soon enough. The front bumper of Stiles’s Jeep had collided with the fender of another car – Danny’s, it seemed, as he was getting out of the car, looking at the damage disbelievingly.

            “Dude, what the hell?” called Danny, and Scott didn’t even pay any attention to him, just let Allison’s hand slip out of his grip as he jogged forward, to the driver’s side of the Jeep. He raised a hand and banged his flat palm against the window.

            “Stiles!” he hissed, his heart pumping. “ _Stiles!_ ” Forgetting, apparently, that he was in the middle of a crowded parking lot, he hooked his fingers into the door handle and pulled sharply, wrenching the car door all but off its hinges, so it hung lamely. At this loud cracking noise, Stiles started back into consciousness, blinking blearily up at his friend.

            “Wh-”

            Scott leaned in, grabbing hold of his friend’s shoulders. “Dude,” he said lowly. “Are you OK? What just happened?”

            “What?” asked Stiles, staring at him with narrowed eyes. “I was just…I…” He looked up, glancing out his windshield at where Allison was talking to Danny sympathetically.

            “Are you OK?” repeated Scott. “Did you just pass out?”

            “No!” said Stiles emphatically, gaze snapping back to his friend. “No, I’m fine, I just…” he trailed off, then, his voice weaker, he said, “…I fell asleep. I just fell asleep, just…”

            Scott watched his friend trying to form words and then said, “OK, come on,” and tugged Stiles out of the car, despite the other boy’s half-hearted protests. “Allison,” called Scott, and she joined them, taking hold of Stiles, who continued to mumble something about being fine. “You drive him home. I’ll take his car.”

            “What?” asked Stiles, scandalized. “What are you talking about, I’m fine to drive, don’t even-” Allison let go of his arm and he almost toppled over, but for Scott catching him midway down. “OK,” he said, as Scott and Allison straightened him up again and exchanged glances. “That proves nothing-”

            “Dude,” called Danny, “Stiles!”

            “I’m OK!” insisted Stiles. “I’m OK, I’m OK! Danny!” He pulled against his friends’ grip on him, turning around to look at Danny. “Hey you,” he said. “Sorry! Totally zoned out there.” He attempted a laugh and Danny gave him an odd look.

            “Is he OK?” asked Danny cautiously, addressing Allison and Scott.

            “I’m _fine_ ,” insisted Stiles. “Did you not just hear me?

            “He’s, uh,” said Scott, “sick. We’re just gonna take him home. Do you think you guys can talk about this some other time?”

            Danny eyed Stiles for a moment, then said, “All right. But only because you’re sick!”

            “I’m _not_ sick,” insisted Stiles, as Danny left and Allison tried to tug him towards her car. “I can drive _fine_.”

            “You fell asleep at the wheel,” said Allison doubtfully, opening the passenger’s door of her car, gently shoving him inside. “In a school parking lot.”

            “How many times do I have to say, _seniori_ -”

            She crossed the car, briefly locking eyes with Scott, driving Stiles’s Jeep, the door hanging loosely on its frame. Getting into the driver’s seat, she said forcefully, “If this is some stupid school thing, Stiles, then go to the guidance counselor, or talk to your teachers, or something. But if you’re actually sick-”

            “I’m not!”

            Allison reached over and flipped down the sun visor before Stiles’s head, opening it to the mirror. Stiles looked up, meeting his face in the lumpy plastic reflection. There was silence as Allison headed out of the parking lot, started down the street. Stiles raised his hands to press his fingers against his face.

            Then he said, “Damn.”

            “You need to go to a doctor.”

            “I _went_ to a doctor.”

            “And?”

            “I’m totally healthy. Apart from the fact that I look like the friggin’ Cryptkeeper, apparently.”

             “You need to get more sleep.”

            “Wow, Allison, you think?”

            “Stiles,” she said, something verging on anger in her voice, “this isn’t a joke anymore. You look _bad_. What’s going on? Why aren’t you sleeping?”

            “I don’t know!” said Stiles, the frustration in her voice reflecting into his. “Jesus, if I knew, I’d fix it. But I just can’t, so don’t give me any of that _well maybe if you went to bed earlier_ -”

            There was a short silence. Allison turned the car and then, without looking at him, she asked, “If this has to do with…what happened to the three of us. If this is some kind of – darkness-”

            “It’s not,” said Stiles tiredly, leaning back in his seat, staring out the window.

            “How do you-”

            “It’s _not!_ ” repeated Stiles, his voice hard and shrill, almost like a shout.

            Allison fell silent, the tension in the car tangible.

            Stiles bent over, buried his face in his hands. “Sorry,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. “This is my problem. That’s all.”

            She drove on. Then, quietly, she began, “If it’s your problem, it’s all of our problem. Haven’t you noticed by now, that’s kind of what we do?”

            Stiles didn’t answer this. In another minute, she turned into his driveway; Scott was already there, waiting by the Jeep, keys in hand. He tried to help Stiles out of the car, but Stiles batted him away, scowling, snatching the keys out of his friend’s hand.

            “Hey,” said Scott, as Stiles stumbled to the front door, struggling to get the keys in the lock. “Hey, hey, hey. Do you want me to call your dad?”

            “No,” snapped Stiles. “I’m fine. Just – if I could just – this stupid lock-”

            Scott reached out and gently pried the keys from Stiles’s hands, fitting it into the lock and opening the door. Stiles didn’t look up to meet his gaze.

            “Thanks,” he said shortly. Glancing behind him, he added, “Thanks for the ride, Allison,” and then he darted into the house, closing the door quickly behind him.

            Scott and Allison stood there uncertainly for a moment. Then, worriedly, Scott looked up at the house before them. “Is he OK?” asked Allison, approaching Scott, watching him carefully.

            “I dunno,” replied Scott honestly. “Should we…”

            He stopped, turning his head slightly; Allison recognized his heightened senses at work and asked, “What’s wrong?”

            After a moment, a smile lit up Scott’s face and he looked at Allison, taking her hand. Grinning, he said, “I can hear him snoring,” and Allison returned the smile, laughing slightly, and they headed back to the car.

            Not much later, they were walking through the woods, hands in their pockets. “Yeah, but,” said Allison fairly, “if he’s that sick, he shouldn’t be coming to school.”

            “He hates staying home from school,” replied Scott, shrugging. “You know him, he gets bored.”

            “He looks like he’s falling apart.”

            Scott didn’t say anything for a moment, hands in his pockets, eyes on the thick layer of leaves below them. After a few seconds, Allison glanced up at him, then tucked her arm around his. “Hey,” she murmured. “What is it?”

            Lost in thought, as if something had only just occurred to him, he shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Nothing,” he said. He was silent. Allison held onto him, knowing that he was not done. Trudging along the damp, orange-brown leaves beneath them, Scott muttered, “That’s what they said about his mom. Like she was falling apart.”

            Something dull and warm seemed to puncture Allison’s heart. Pity – something she couldn’t remember ever feeling for Stiles – welled up in her stomach. “What happened to her?” she asked, her voice gentle.

            “Cancer,” answered Scott. “She was sick for a really long time.” Neither of them said anything. Then Scott continued, “I hope his dad knows. Maybe I’ll talk to him.”

            They stopped, standing underneath the tall trees, grayish light filtering down onto them. “That’s sweet,” she whispered, her face before his. Her eyes flickered down to his lips. “You really care about him.”

            Scott shrugged. “He’s my best friend. You know that.”

            “Yeah,” she breathed, and she leaned forward, and they kissed. After a moment, they pulled away, and he met her gaze with those big brown eyes.

            “So,” he began, “what was that thing you wanted to talk about?”

            “Oh,” she said, her expression failing slightly. She took his hand and they started to walk again. “I don’t know. It was weird. I was probably just seeing things.”

            “Yeah?” asked Scott, looking at her. “What kind of things?”

            She was quiet. In the woods, a bird let out a crowing caw, and the leaves on the organic earth below them rustled. Allison glanced at Scott uncertainly. Then, slowly, she began: “Something seemed…evil. Like it was trying to hurt me.”

            Scott blinked. “Who?” he asked urgently.

            “No,” replied Allison, shaking her head. “Not _who_. There was nobody there. It was like – it was like I was seeing things. I saw…” she trailed off, staring before them. Then she told him: “I saw my mother.”

            Scott stared at her, worry pooling in his eyes. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Like…she’s alive again? Or…?”

            “No,” said Allison, narrowing her eyes slightly in thought. “Not like that. It was more like a hallucination than anything.”

            They both considered this, and then Scott offered, “Maybe somebody poisoned you. Like what happened at Lydia’s party that one time?”

            “Who would poison me?” asked Allison doubtfully.

            “I don’t know,” answered Scott. “Lydia again?”

            “That was only because Peter was controlling her,” Allison pointed out. “And now that he’s back, he wouldn’t need to use her anymore.”

            “That’s so weird,” murmured Scott thoughtfully. Glancing at his girlfriend, seeing the look on her face, he squeezed her hand. “Maybe it was just a bad dream,” he offered helpfully. “You’re OK, right? It didn’t hurt you or anything?”

            “No,” answered Allison, but her hand flitted up to her neck, trailing where the blood had tightened around her throat like a noose. She glanced up at Scott. “It scared me, though.”

            He looked at her, then they stopped walking, and he put his arms around her. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “It sounds scary. But don’t worry. Your house is probably the safest place you could be, right?”

            She turned her head, pressed her lips against his cheek. “Except for with you,” she whispered, and he smiled, and they kissed.

            Holding hands, they continued through the woods, coming to a little creek they had to cross. As they approached the bank, Allison asked, “You don’t think this has anything to do with everything that happened last year, do you? Maybe this is like – some kind of darkness coming back?”

            Scott considered this, then said, “Maybe. But even in that case, I don’t think it can hurt us. We’ll make it through.” He shot a grin up at her. “We always do.”

            She could not resist when he smiled at her like that, and a warm smile spread across her lips as well. Letting go of his hand, she stepped delicately onto a rock in the stream, hopping from one to another, crossing the running water. Almost completely across, she stopped, looking back at Scott. “Come on,” she said, beckoning towards him.

            He grinned at her and took a step out onto the rocks, careful, making sure not to slip. Allison laughed at him and held out her hands, reaching for him. He took another step, holding up his arms, stretching to touch their fingertips together.

            He glanced down to adjust his footing and his breath left his body, eyes widening, frozen to the spot as light eyes stared vacantly up at him from beneath the surface of the water, skin shimmering pale white in the movement of the stream. Pale blood gushed into the water, from a wound on a forehead.

            Instantly he was in the water, scrambling on his hands and knees, his fingers feeling nothing but the rocky mud-covered bottom of the creek. Alarmed, Allison called his name and darted back onto the rocks, reaching down to pull him up, but he shouted, “ _No!_ ” and threw her hand off his back, scratching at the bottom of the stream, searching for something.

            With more force, she reached down, tugging at his shoulders, saying, “ _Scott_ ,” – she stumbled into the water, and it soaked her jeans up to her knees as she struggled to pull him up from the water, fingers cold and bone-white. At last she tugged him upright, forcefully dragging him to the bank. “Oh my _God_ ,” she said, as he knelt there on the ground, staring at his hands. “What just happened?”

            Scott looked up at her, eyes wide in shock. “Didn’t you see him?” he asked, his voice hushed.

            Allison stared at him. “See who?”

            Slowly, he looked back to the water. It ran clear, down to the rocks at the bottom. He put a hand to his chest, slowing his heart, breath still pumping. “Matt,” he said, reaching out, dipping his fingers into the water.

            Allison blinked. “Matt?” she echoed disbelievingly. “Creepy photographer Matt?”

            “Yes!” replied Scott, looking back at her. “Kanima master Matt! I saw him!”

            A crow cawed in the trees. Allison glanced around, then said, “Scott…Matt’s dead. His body was buried.”

            “No,” insisted Scott. “I just saw him, right there.”

            “Scott,” said Allison, reaching down, pulling him upright. “You’re freezing. Come on. Let’s go back to the car.”

            “Allison, I _saw_ -”

            “I know,” said Allison loudly, her voice sharp and cutting through the quiet forest. Scott’s eyes snapped up to meet her gaze, staring back at him. Without glancing away, she asked, “You think I wouldn’t believe you? After what I just told you?”

            He watched her, and then he turned his head. She held his hand tightly, and he looked back at the little stream as they headed away. “Yeah,” he said vaguely. “I… yeah.”

            Allison pulled him into the car, closing the door and scanning through the woods as she went around the car, to the other side. Before she got in, she looked out. A crow cawed again and, as if in response, an owl hooted somewhere in the distance. Out of the corner of her eye, something moved, dark and human-shaped. When she looked around again, there was nothing there.

            She got into the car and they headed back to the road.

-

            In his room, Stiles lay on his bed. His eyes were closed – it was, he’d found, one of the only things he could control. Even when he was frozen still, body stiff and refusing to obey any of his thoughts, he always had the option to close his eyes against the weight on his chest, haunting and viciously piercing, as if digging into the flesh of his heart.

            There was a sharp rapping sound, knuckles against glass. Instantly his eyes flew open, and whatever it was that had a hold on him which gripped him so tightly seemed to vanish. He breathed a deep breath of relief, then glanced around, a pounding pain growing on the side of his head. Squinting against the last of the fading light streaming in through his window, his mind working agonizingly slowly, he stared out the glass and, thickly, asked aloud: “Cora?”

            Looking decidedly disinterested for somebody crouching on his roof and trying to climb through the window, she waved at him through the glass, then motioned for him to open it. He did so, allowing her to slip into the room. She closed the window after her.

            Stiles fell back to sit on his bed again, looking up at her. “Uh,” he began, “hi.”

            She looked at him derisively. “Hi,” she replied, almost as if mocking him. Roughly, she continued, “I heard you had an accident at school today.”

            “Oh. Oh, yeah. That was nothing.”

            “Right. Of course. Because passing out behind the wheel is,” she shrugged, “no big deal.”

            Stiles rolled his eyes, leaning back against the wall on the other side of his bed. “I didn’t realize you were so worried about me.”

            “I’m not,” she replied, her dark, inquisitive eyes gazing into his. “But if you have to give me a ride again, I’d prefer it if you  _didn’t_  kill us both.”

            “Oh, sure,” responded Stiles, heat entering his voice. “Gee, I promise, Cora, I’ll be  _uber_ -sure to only kill  _you_.”

            “Really?” she asked faintly. Something like a smile appeared on her face. “You couldn’t if you wanted to, Stiles.”

            There was a silence. Stiles looked down at his hands, picking at his nails, and then he looked up at Cora, caught her watching him with that odd, more-than-there look on her face.

            She sat down on his bed, sliding over to lean against the wall beside him, drawing her legs into her chest. Something new morphed into her expression, something that he could not quite recognize. Gently, she asked, “How are you feeling?”

            Sharply, he replied, “Shitty.”

            With just as much softness in her voice, she asked, “Did you get some sleep?” and he glanced at her and suddenly he realized what that new look was. He’d seen concern in her eyes before, but never in this context – never for him.

            “Yeah,” he sighed, acutely aware of her proximity to him, the rubbing at his nails and fingers becoming slightly more self-conscious. “Like an hour or so.”

            “Since school let out?”

            “Yeah.”

            She didn’t say anything for a moment, then: “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

            “No,” he said abruptly, turning to look at her. “No, no. I’m glad you came.” She could not know about his recurring nightmares and how her appearance had ended one, and so he knew she would take this differently than he meant it. But then again, he thought, meeting her gaze again, maybe he meant it that way, as well. Blinking, he tore his eyes away from hers, a sudden, juvenile flush rising to his cheeks. “Why are you here?” he asked. “Did Derek want to make sure I was still breathing?”

            “No,” answered Cora, almost patiently. “I did.”

            He didn’t say anything.

            “Don’t look like that,” said Cora, leaning forward, peering at his face. “You made pretty well damn sure I was breathing once, so it’s not as if I’m doing anything that special for you.”

            “OK,” said Stiles, “can we pretty much say we’re even about the whole mouth-to-mouth thing? For the record, I’m not even CPR-certified, really it was more dangerous than the alternative-”

            “But let me guess,” said Cora, cutting him off, “you wanted to put your lips on mine?”

            “No,” he said, his voice getting tense. He glanced at her. “Maybe. I don’t know, Cora, jeez.” There was a pause, and then he added, “Now that we’ve done the whole  _actual_  kissing thing, this all seems a lot more awkward.” At this, she glanced away as well, a look of what verged on distaste across her face. “I mean,” he said hurriedly. “Not in a bad way. No, OK, what I meant was – I was just  _implying_ that – I mean, I don’t know, why are you here?” She didn’t reply. He looked at her and then, genuine distress in his voice, he put his hand to his face and rubbed his forehead, and murmured, “Why did you kiss me?”

            “You wanted me to,” she countered.

            “So?” asked Stiles, looking at her. “For the record? There are very few people I  _wouldn’t_ want to kiss, so, I mean, just so you know that. For future reference.”

            “So what?” she asked, watching him. “I’m nothing special to you? Is that what you’re saying?”

            “ _No_. I’m just saying, there are…” he trailed off, rubbing his face tiredly. “It didn’t seem like something you’d do.”

            “Stiles,” she said, cocking her head slightly. He looked at her, and there was a trace of amusement on her face. She said, “You don’t know me at all well enough to say that.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she spoke over him. “I don’t really care about any of your complicated, incredibly boring  _emotions_ ,” she said this as if it were a dirty word, all but giving it air quotes in the air with her fingers, “but…” she paused, watching him, as if considering her words. “But I liked seeing your face,” she said. “When I kissed you. That was worth it.”

            He looked at her. The coldness in his chest, frozen with the weight of something pressing against him, immobilizing him, seemed to crack. He breathed a deep breath, and then asked, teasingly, “So what you’re saying is that  _I’m_  nothing special to  _you?_ ”

            She grinned. “Maybe,” she said.

            Rolling his eyes, he looked away. “You’re such a Hale.”

            “You have no idea what we Hales are like.”

            “Prickly and emotionally stunted,” said Stiles, and then he looked at her with one eyebrow cocked. “Am I close?”

            She shook her head, holding back a small laugh. “Fine,” she said, “then let me do you.”

            “Anytime,” he said, and then he inwardly winced at the comment.

            Cora seemed to ignore it, only declared: “Overly-defensive. With a big mask made of sarcasm that you don’t think anyone can see through.”

            “Oh, come on,” responded Stiles. “I’m fully aware Scott can see right through me, to my poor vulnerable sensitive little soul. Right through the eyes. See? Right there.” He pointed to his eyes, peering at Cora. “Windows into my soul. Very romantic. Am I right?”

            “No,” answered Cora simply.

            “Oh,” said Stiles fairly. “OK. Do you know what  _romantic_  means, or-?”

            She glanced around, her attention caught by something. “Your father’s home,” she said.

            “Guess not,” he muttered, but she didn’t seem to hear him.

            She slid off the bed, getting to her feet. “Don’t die,” she said, almost affectionately. “I would be very disappointed.”

            “I’ll keep that in mind.”

            “Stiles,” she said.

            He looked up at her, blinking unenthusiastically. “What?”

            “I don’t like people I care about being hurt,” she said. “I’ve had way too much of that.” He watched her, unsure of what to say to this. Then she leaned forward and gently touched his cheek, bending down very quickly to touch her lips to his forehead for only a moment, and then she was at the window again. “Get some sleep,” she said, opening the window. “You look halfway dead already.”

            She was gone, and Stiles sat there on his bed, supremely confused.

            A few days later, Derek dropped his sister off at school. Things were smoother, although not necessarily easy, but there was more often a smile on her face, which Derek could thoroughly appreciate. She slipped out of the car, closing the door behind her, and he watched her walk away. A girl joined her a few paces away, and Derek felt an odd swell of pride that it wasn’t anyone he knew: Cora was doing perfectly fine on her own.

            Once she was gone, he made a call. He knew that she had been listening, and he saw that look on her face when she knew he was speaking to Peter, when he even  _mentioned_  Peter. And he had smelled Grace’s pack on her before, and he trusted his sister and loved her deeply, but he thought it was the wisest course of action not to involve her anymore.

            Something in Peter’s voice, though, sounded different this time. “Be cautious, Derek,” he said, voice slightly fuzzy over the phone. “You can feel it, can’t you? Something in the air.”

            “It’s another Alpha,” said Derek stonily. “I told you. Her being here is throwing everything off-”

            “It’s not  _just_  that. Something’s coming.”

            “Yeah, to kill you.”

            “Don’t be dramatic.”

            “I’m not the one talking like there’s a war coming,” answered Derek impatiently. “We don’t have time for this. Are you going to talk to Deaton or not?”

            “Not,” replied Peter icily. “We need a new emissary.”

            “Why? If he’s been with our family for a long time-”

            “That’s my point exactly,” snapped Peter. “We don’t need an emissary loyal to your mother, Derek, that will only hold us back.”

            “How will that  _hold us back?_ ”

            “We’re a different pack now. We don’t own this land the way we used to. We used to be respected here, and now look at us. We have an ex-Omega on our asses, thinking she can show up and challenge my authority. She thinks she can  _threaten_  me. We need an emissary who’s on  _our_  side, not committed to what we used to be.”

            Derek clenched his jaw, then said, “You mean we need one who’s on  _your_  side.”

            “Maybe. But I am the Alpha, so my side is your side. Right, Derek?”

            The word tasting bitter in his mouth, Derek forced himself to utter, “Right.”

            “Good.” Peter paused, and then said, “Let me think about this. We may be able to use Grace’s profound impudence to our advantage.”

            Derek rubbed his fingers together, mouth tight. “How?”

            “It’s very simple. We’re pathetically dependent, now that Scott has his own pack. We could do with a few more Betas.”

            His voice a warning, Derek began, “Peter-”

            “How many are in her pack?”

            “Six. Including her.”

            Peter considered this. “That would be a welcome addition.”

            “That’s twice our size,” Derek pointed out. “She’d tear you apart.”

            “How many times do I have to say this? She came from  _Omega_ , she knows  _nothing_ -”

            “She’s still a threat.” Then, after a second’s hesitation, he added, “And I won’t let you hurt her. Not unless she comes after you.”

            “She’s  _already_ -”

            “You know what she meant to Laura. And you  _killed_  Laura, Peter. Leave the woman she loved alone.”

            There was a silence on Peter’s end. And then, his voice oily and snake-like, Peter began, “You want to talk about Laura, Derek?” A thousand responses instantly ran through Derek’s mind, but before he could choose one, Peter continued: “I’ll tell you about Laura.” There was a silence. Derek almost said something, but did not; he all but held his breath, bristling at the scorn in Peter’s voice, the apathy with which he spoke whenever he talked about Laura. Derek said nothing, waiting. Quietly, Peter murmured, “It’s no accident that Grace has come looking for her now.” He paused, and Derek hated himself for how delicately he hung on every word. His voice tinny and artificial through the phone, Peter said plainly, “Don’t let her near Cora.”

            An odd, stuttering sensation hit him in the chest, his heart missing a beat. “Why?” he demanded.

            “Cora doesn’t have the kind of power she’s looking for right now, not as a Beta. But if you want her to live, you keep her away from Grace.”

            “Peter-!” There was an emphatic  _click_  and Derek repeated, “Peter!” but he was gone, no one on the other line. Swearing, Derek put down the phone, the stink of Grace’s pack coming from Cora’s warm body lingering in his nose.

            In the evening, a fine mist rested upon Beacon Hills, silvery would-be rain hovering bizarrely in the air. The cemetery was ringed by the woods, trees dark and dense in the impending dusk. A pair of bare feet padded slowly through the grass, walking along the edges of graves, with wide eyes and skin a sickly pale white.

            There was a figure standing before a grave before her. She took a step, and a twig broke beneath her foot; the other woman glanced around suddenly, her eyes flashing with color. After a moment’s tense silence, she sighed, glancing back at the tombstone before her, then she crossed the graveyard. “Lydia,” said Cora, approaching the girl. “What are you doing here?” Looking at her feet, she asked, “Where are your shoes?”

            Lydia stared at her, mouth hanging open, eyes huge and petrified. As Cora watched her, a slow, crawling sensation trickled down her spine, and she realized something seemed terribly wrong.

            “Lydia,” repeated Cora, glancing around them warily. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”

            Fingers spread wide and sharp like talons, Lydia’s hand whipped out and took hold of Cora’s forearm, squeezing her tightly. In confusion, Cora looked down at the girl’s hand, perfectly manicured nails, rings on her fingers. Before she could ask one more time, Lydia whispered, “They’re everywhere.”

            Cora said nothing, only peered at Lydia guardedly.

            “Don’t you see them,” she said faintly, eyes sliding around them, staring into the low mist. “They’re all here. Everyone. They’re here, they’re…” she trailed off. Moving very slowly, Cora followed her gaze, looking around. There was nothing there. Her words coming out in frozen breaths, Lydia whispered, “… _they’re all dead_.”

            Around them both, packed densely into the small cemetery, surrounding Lydia and Cora, standing around them with wide mouths, lips shriveled and pulled back to expose teeth in a skeletal smirk, shuddering laughter reverberating somewhere far away. Lydia held onto Cora, pulling her closer, unable to breathe in fear. Slowly, the rotting bodies closest to her began to move, lifting their arms, extending long thin fingers. Flesh dropped from their hands, exposing bone and rancid, stinking strips of meat along their frail limbs. The tips of their fingers brushed along her body, cold like they were made of ice, trailing along her back and shoulders. “Lydia,” said Cora again, her brow knit in concern.

            Lydia looked at her, trembling hard, her grip still tight on Cora’s arm. And then her eyes slipped past the other girl, to behind her, and her eyes widened so hard it was painful, and the inside of her chest felt sick and sour. Vomit churned in her stomach, and she could barely contain herself, unable to shield herself from the whispery voices around her as she lifted a finger and held it up, pointing to something behind Cora.

            A naked body slowly moved towards them, dark eyes fixated on Lydia, more alive than any of the other specters around her. It moved as if it could see her, as if it knew who she was. It was a woman with long hair, and a huge wound like a belt around her navel, where dried blood caked her skin. The way she moved was odd and unnatural, as if she were walking on top of a balance beam, careful to keep her weight even. Cora turned, facing the thing in the face, so close their noses almost touched.

            Lydia let go of Cora’s arm, putting both her hands over her mouth, too horrified to scream. For a long moment, there was nothing.

            And then Cora looked back at Lydia, and when she did, her face was half glistening and blackened from deep, stripping burns. She smiled at Lydia, baring her teeth, and she said: “What’s wrong, Lydia? That’s just my sister.”

            Behind her, the dead woman’s body moved sideways with an uncanny sliding motion. Vomit rose in her throat as Lydia realized what was happening, and the top half of the woman slid completely off her body, falling to the ground, her intestines and organs slopping onto the earth. Her legs followed, buckling lifelessly at the knees. Her head feeling light and impossible, Lydia’s own legs weakened and she dropped to her hands and knees, retching on the wet grass. Shuddering, she lifted her gaze incrementally, and the dead-but-still-seeing eyes of the woman cut in half stared up at her, piercing her deeply.

            Something cold pressed against her face, and her mind worked sluggishly, and nothing made sense until someone lifted her chin and she looked up to see Cora, half burnt, skin charred, grinning at her, cold, bloated fingers trailing across her face.

            The scream came bubbling up from inside of her, twisting and writhing and desperate to get out, passing through her lungs and forcing its way up through her throat, and when she opened her eyes again, the eerie ghost of Cora had disappeared, and there was nothing but her scream echoing in the empty graveyard.

            Breathing hard, every desperate breath painful and raw against her throat, she realized that she was still on her hands and knees, and that there was dirt all over her palms, underneath her fingernails. She scrambled to her feet, her skirt dirtied, her tights torn at the knees. Before her was an emptied grave, wet earth and clay lining a perfectly rectangular ditch. Shivering, she peered down into the hole. At the bottom was a wooden casket, and in the center of the casket, there was a hole, wood splintered upwards, just big enough to see the emptiness behind it, the white silk stained red with viscous drops of dried blood.

            Very slowly, frozen so deeply she almost could not move at all, Lydia raised her head to read the tombstone erected before the grave, letters engraved a stark black against the deep marble white of the stone. There was a date of birth, a date of death, and a name. Lydia read it, and the shuddering fear in her stomach reared and hissed and struck like a snake.

             _LAURA HALE_

-

            Hardly a day after their last conversation over the phone, Derek was in his car, speeding down the road, heading to find Peter. He stared out the windshield before him, unblinking, nearly unmoving except to keep the car shooting down the dark lanes. Something in Peter’s voice had stuck with him, and Peter’s warning about Cora had resounded in his ears a thousand times, every time he looked at her. His stomach felt tight and knotted with anxiety, and he refused to sit and wait. Peter would give him an explanation, he knew.

            He stopped outside where Peter lived, getting out of the car, locking it behind him. He hadn’t called ahead, but that was for the best. Maybe if Peter were surprised, he’d be more inclined to finally answer some questions.

            Paranoid, Peter had not given Derek a key. Instead he stood outside the door and knocked harshly. “Peter,” he called. “It’s me.”

            Nothing.

            Derek knocked again. “Peter,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

            When there was silence again, it occurred to Derek for the first time that something was not quite right. He lifted his face and sniffed the air, and the scent he could smell put a snarling grimace on his face. Glancing around, he kicked the door, and it fell uselessly aside, barely kept together at the hinges.

            The stink hit him strongly as soon as the door was gone, and he hated that scent, but he stepped in, moving forward very slowly. He dropped to a defensive crouch, peering in the darkness with eyes that shone bright blue. There was no one there. Following the smell, he crept down a hall, towards the single bedroom. His steps slow and measured, he approached the door and then reached out, gently resting his fingers against the doorknob, claws tapping against the metallic surface. He turned the doorknob and gently pushed at the door. It swung open.

            The stink of blood, heady and strong, overwhelmed Derek. He stood at the door, staring into the room.

            Peter was lying on the bed. His body, the sheets, the carpet on the ground – everything was soaked a deep black-crimson, the color of blood spilt hours ago. His body was nearly unrecognizable except for his head, skin pale and drained of color, eyes closed, resting gently, as if asleep, on the pillows at the top of the bed, four feet away from the rest of his body. A trail of blood leading from his severed neck was smeared into a perfect spiral on the white sheets of the bed.

            Derek stood there, clenching the doorknob, bile rising in his throat.


	5. Durga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace's pack knows something about Cora, and something about the Argents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter! Sort of late (it's a Halloween chapter) but enjoy.

Durga

 

O Mother!  
Thee, who is present everywhere, thee who is the embodiment of power and Energy!  
I Bow to Thee! I Bow to Thee! I Bow to Thee!

She Who Conquers Over All,  
All-Auspicious, the remover of Darkness,  
he Excellent One Beyond Time,  
the bearer of the Skulls of Impure thought,  
the reliever of difficulties, loving, forgiving,  
supporter of the Universe,  
accept the oblations of the devotee who is one with you,  
accept the oblations of ancestral praise,  
We bow to you.

  
[x.](http://www.dollsofindia.com/library/durga/)

 

            “ _Grace!_ ”

            Derek made his way through the forest loudly, leaves and twigs cracking underfoot, pushing branches and debris out of his way. “ _Grace!_ ” he shouted again, knowing that wherever she was, she would be listening, and she would hear the fury in his voice, and she would come running. He stopped, his eyes burning, staring into the night with teeth bared. He flexed his fingers, and nails lengthened into claws, fangs pressing against lips drawn back in rage. Haunches rose on his back, and he threw his head back, opened his mouth, and howled.

            Behind him, footsteps cracked on the earthy ground. He whipped around, dropping to a defensive crouch, a growl scratching out from deep in his chest. Someone appeared from between the trees, watching Derek with silvery eyes.

            Chris Argent asked, “Who’s Grace?”

            The man was holding a crossbow in one hand; it was lowered to his side but, Derek noticed, still loaded. Derek snarled, “This doesn’t concern you.”

            “A new pack in town?” countered Chris, raising an eyebrow. “I am very concerned, Derek.”

            Jaw clenched, Derek took a threatening step towards the other man. “I thought you didn’t hunt anymore,” he said, but he did not retract his claws.

            Chris cocked his head slightly in a half-shrug. “I make exceptions,” he responded. “Far different from retirement.”

            There was nothing between them for a moment. A muscle in Derek’s jaw jumped, and he wanted nothing more than to rip the other man’s throat out, adrenaline coursing in his veins, the scent of Peter’s blood still lingering around him. His voice hard, he asked, “How do you know about the new pack?”

            “Derek,” said Chris, almost as if in reprimand, “give me some credit. I do have some experience with this, you know.” When Derek said nothing more, Chris relented. “The animal mutilations,” he said. “Throat gouged out. Gnaw marks on the bones. Very characteristic of your kind.”

            Bluntly, Derek asked, “What do you know about them?”

            “Only that they’re not welcome here,” replied Chris. “And that you sound like you’re protecting them.”

            “Believe me,” said Derek stonily. “I’m not on their side.”

            “Problem solved,” replied Chris, nodding. “I can get rid of them for you.” When Derek did not respond, Chris prompted, “How many of them are there?”

            There was a silence. Then, his voice much quieter, Derek said, “Don’t. They’re mine.”

            “You’re a Beta, Derek,” sighed Chris, holding the crossbow, adjusting it slightly. “With a dwindling pack. You’re one step above Omega. Don’t tell me you can take them by yourself.”

            “I won’t have to.”

            “Right,” said Chris, and there was something almost like pity in his eyes when he looked at Derek, “because I’m going to let you drag an innocent young girl on a suicide mission like that.”

            “You’re one to talk,” Derek shot back, his voice full of poison. Chris didn’t immediately respond, but his eyes narrowed.

            Derek said nothing, their gazes locked. And then, softly, Chris asked, “You think you can protect her?”

            “Are you _really_ threatening my sister?” asked Derek, taking another step towards Chris. “Because that will not end well for you.”

            “No,” said Chris shortly, “I’m asking you a question. You think you can keep her out of danger? How’s that worked out for you so far?”

            Instantly, Derek shot forward, reaching out and seizing Chris by the collar, teeth bared, staring into his eyes with irises a bright, frozen blue. He growled, and Chris didn’t even flinch. There was a tense moment, and then Chris opened his mouth and he said, “Stand down.”

            Derek narrowed his eyes. Then Chris’s eyes slid past Derek, and, still holding tightly onto the other man’s shirt, Derek turned around. Ten feet behind him, bow raised, arm drawn back and wire pulled taut, Allison Argent pointed an arrow straight at Derek’s back. She watched him, and then her father said her name. At this, she finally lowered her bow.

            Slowly turning around, Derek looked at Chris one more time, then let him go. “I’m not taunting you, Derek,” said Chris, watching him. “I’m trying to warn you.”

            Standing in between the two Argents and not completely certain which one posed the more significant threat, Derek asked, “Warn me about what?”

            “Oh, but you must know,” said Chris, with vindictive pleasure in his voice. “You made it sound like you knew everything about this new pack.” Derek growled again, baring his fangs, and the satisfied grin on Chris’s face slipped away. Lowering his face, he murmured, “They’ve got their eye on Cora.” Glancing back at his daughter, he continued, “Allison can look out for her at school, but do you have the means to keep her safe everywhere?” He paused, as if prompting an answer from Derek, but none came. “Hm?” asked Chris. “Do you know where she is right now?”

            Derek stared at him. “How do you know this?” he demanded.

            Chris watched him for a few moments. And then, without looking away, he said, “There’s a lot of power about to change hands, Derek. When you’ve been at this long as I have, you learn to pick up…” he eyes flickered down Derek’s body, almost in distaste, “…the scent.”

            “But what-”

            A powerful, moaning howl echoed through the forest; birds in the trees cried and took off, and the very trunks themselves seemed to shudder, and it rattled Allison deep in her bones. The timbre was higher than Chris had ever heard, and it made the hair stand up at the back of his neck. Derek’s gaze snapped back to him as he lifted his crossbow grimly, and then the werewolf took off, darting into the woods, disappearing from view. Chris did not move.

            Allison looked up at her father, gripping her bow tightly. “Do we go after him?” she asked.

            Chris didn’t look at her, only watched where Derek had disappeared. Then he glanced up at his daughter and asked, “What do you say?”

            She considered this for a moment, then said, “We can’t keep up with him.” After a pause, she added, “But we may be able to find him. And if we find him, we find the other pack.”

            “Right,” said Chris, nodding and turning around. “Back to the car.”

            Derek was deep in the forest, following his senses, searching for Grace. Another howl would have guided him, but he knew that she would not show him so much courtesy. She was playing him, teasing him, skirting around his edges, and everything in his body seethed for it.

            In the middle of the trees – so far from the road that he could no longer hear any trace of cars nearby, even with his heightened senses – he stopped, searching for any clue of where to go next. He could not lose her. He was going to find her and, Alpha or no, he was going to tear her-

            From nowhere, two bodies descended on him, claws and fangs bared, bringing him to the ground. He let out a primal roar, scraping his claws against skin, drawing blood, and one of the other werewolves promptly took his elbow and twisted, hard. With an audible _snap_ , the bone broke in two. He let out another scream and struggled against them, but they had him pinned to the ground. He could tell they were far less experienced than he was, but they had the strength of a pack behind them, and seemed to glean some sort of ferocious glee from pressing him into the ground. Once he was face down on the wet earth, one of them – the female – sat at the base of his neck, squeezing the breath of his lungs and holding his arms down by his wrists, while the male sat on his legs, one hand wrapped tightly around Derek’s ankle, slowly tightening his grip, crushing the bones.

            “Alex. Cam.”

            The female hissed, then their weight disappeared off of Derek, but not before she ran her claws up his spine, underneath his shirt, drawing blood.

            For a moment, Derek could do nothing but slowly lift himself to hands and knees. He could smell Grace, hear her heart beating behind him. She said nothing, patiently waiting for him to collect himself. When he finally got to his feet most of his wounds were already healed, but he stepped gingerly on his ankle, the bone not yet fully fused.

            He looked at her and didn’t say anything. When he met her gaze, a smile spread onto her face. Quietly, she said, “I knew you’d come around.”

            Baring his fangs, he growled at her. Beside her, the female who had attacked him returned the growl; she had short red hair, and even in the darkness, she could see her face full of freckles.

            “You have no idea what you’ve done,” uttered Derek threateningly. “I was going to let you leave. Because of what you meant to Laura.” He paused, clenching his jaw. “But not anymore. Not when you kill my family.”

            Grace narrowed her eyes. Her voice high and faint, she moved towards him and asked, “You were going to _let_ me leave?” She trailed around him, barely at the level of his chest, eyes flickering up to his head. He did not move, her pack closing in around them protectively. She clucked her tongue, as if chastising him. Standing before him again, she looked him in the eye and said, “Who ever said I was going to leave?”

            His hand shot out to grasp her throat, but she caught him by the wrist, claws digging into his flesh, and her growl came from deep within her, higher than his but somehow more authoritative. She jerked his wrist backwards and he bit his tongue to hold back a yelp of pain as the bone dislocated.

            Her lips twisted in a snarl, she hissed, “You _do not_ touch me, Derek.”

            There was a silence.

            Derek lowered his hand.

            Quietly, his voice loaded with violence, he muttered, “You said Cora deserved her family.”

            “Don’t start,” she said, cutting him off, rolling her eyes. “I’m not going to _kill_ you-”

            “Why now?” he demanded. “What changed? What brought you here?”

            Her eyes glinted, and she did not quite reply.

            His heart was beating out of control, but he couldn’t control it. He bared his teeth at her aggressively and continued, “You don’t think I know what he did? I _know_ he killed Laura, Grace, he _told_ me. But if you think for one second that I hate him – that I _envied_ him because he was there that night, because a part of him _died_ in that house-” Breathless, he let out groan of frustration and what may have bordered on pain, and Grace only watched him with eyes slightly narrowed. “He’s the only family we have left,” he said lowly, dangerously, “and if you think Laura would have let you slaughter him like that-”

            Grace interrupted him, her voice sluicing through the surroundings like running water. “Peter is dead?” she asked.

            Derek stared at her, then he snarled at her. “Don’t pretend like you aren’t responsible!”

            “I’m not,” she said icily. “Killing him is far kinder than what I had in mind.”

            Without a thought, he launched himself at her, claws and teeth bared. Instantly, the male and female who’d attacked him before placed themselves in between Derek and their Alpha, and then Grace said, “Step back. I can handle him.”

            Glowering at Derek, they both retreated. They moved perfectly in sync with one another, in a way Derek hadn’t seen for a long time. He glanced down at and saw that they both wore a plain gold band around the ring fingers of their left hands, then looked back up into their eyes, one another’s emotions spilling into and mixing on their faces. Mates.

            Expressionless and unreadable, Grace watched Derek. “Say it again,” she said, and he knew that she was listening for his heartbeat, watching the beads of sweat breaking on his forehead.

            He stared at her and then, very slowly, he said, “Peter is dead. You murdered him.”

            “That’s not true,” said Grace, shaking her head, although her demeanor shifted noticeably. She, Derek thought, believed him. “I didn’t do it,” she told him smoothly, “but I’m glad it’s done.”

            “You really expect me to believe you had no part in this?” he asked dangerously. “You told me outright that you were going to kill him.”

            “Not like this.”

            The voice grated along the metallic edges of Derek’s memorylike rusty nails on concrete, and he whipped around, eyes widening. Another woman stood there, taller than any of the others in the pack. Her long hair tucked neatly behind her ears, she watched him with an age in her eyes that did not fit her beautiful outward appearance.

            His voice low, Derek murmured, “Rosemary…”

            “It’s been a long time,” she said. And then – Derek noticed she did not look to her Alpha for approval – Rosemary stepped forward, approaching him, and she took his injured arm in her hands, never looking away from his eyes. “I’m sorry we have to meet like this.” She cocked her head.

            “Like what?” he asked defiantly, pulling his arm away from her. “You mean after you’ve just murdered my uncle?”

            Rosemary’s gaze flickered between his eyes. “Derek,” she began, with a measured uncertainty. “All Peter ever did was lie to you-”

            “He was my _family_ -”

            “Just because you don’t have much left doesn’t mean they're all suddenly perfect,” said someone else; Derek turned and saw the Beta who had stopped him when he first met Grace’s pack. Her skin was jet black and her eyes burned gold like embers flickering on coals. Gazing up at him, her eyes mesmerizing and her voice in a hush, she asked, “What’s family worth, if they destroy their own?”

            “Jaz,” said Rosemary, the name an admonishment, looking at her. Derek didn’t tear his eyes away from Jaz. A smile crept onto her face. Rosemary physically took Derek’s shoulder and pulled him away, to make him face her. “This is pointless, anyway,” she said. “We didn’t touch him.”

             “Looks like you have somebody else in town with a vendetta and a pair of claws,” said Grace thoughtfully, running the tips of her talons along her chin, the marked line of her jaw.

            Derek looked back at her. “I don’t believe you,” he said scathingly. Nodding at the sole male in the pack, he added, “He stinks like blood.”

            “That’s because he gets hungry,” said the red-haired woman. She cocked her head to the side, staring at Derek. “And we like to leave a little something to let the hunters know we’re here.” Chris’s words came back to Derek. The animal mutilations.

            He looked back at the male, who grinned at him. And then Derek said, to Grace, “That’s a stupid move.”

            “Why should they come after us?” asked Jaz, and Derek turned to look at her again. She advanced upon him threateningly. With a sly smirk, she added, “We haven’t killed anyone.”

            There was a silence. And then Derek looked back to Grace and began, “Let’s say, in some highly unlikely turn of events, that you didn’t kill him.” He paused. Then, stoically, he asked, “Why do people keep telling me to make sure you stay away from Cora?”

            “Cora’s a daughter of the Hales,” said Grace simply, “and an Alpha. Why do you think we’re here?”

            Derek stared at her blankly. Then: “Cora’s not an Alpha.”

            Grace only watched him dubiously. Blinking, Derek turned to look at Rosemary. Although she seemed uncomfortable, she did not deny it.

            “You just asked us,” continued Grace, “ _why_ now. You just asked us what brought you here.” She ducked her head slightly to catch his eye. Incredulously, she asked, “Did you really not know?”

            “Peter was our Alpha,” said Derek stubbornly. “Whoever killed him-”

            “-isn’t here,” said Grace, cutting him off. “You’d feel it. I would be your Alpha.” She paused, then asked, “Am I your Alpha, Derek?”

            “No,” he said, “but-”

            “If it’s not,” said Grace loudly, before he could speak, “one of us. If it was – I don’t know, a hunter, someone far enough removed that the allegiance wouldn’t shift…” she trailed off, watching Derek. The cogs turning in his head were almost visible behind his eyes, “…if that were the case,” she said quietly, “then Alpha is passed down the pack, and you’re next in line.”

            He looked at her, and a flicker of blue shone in his eyes.

            “If Peter could be killed so easily,” she said, challenging him, “then he was weak. You’re small enough that you can hardly be called a pack at all, but, I’ll admit, you’re Hales. That usually gives you the edge.” She paused. “But Peter wasn’t at full power. Not as Alpha, anyway.” A small smile danced around her lips as she watched things fall into place in Derek’s consciousness. “Because he wasn’t the only Alpha in his pack.”

            “That makes no sense,” murmured Derek, brow furrowed.

            “It’s an unusual circumstance,” offered Rosemary, on the other side of Derek. “We knew you were the Alpha for a while, Derek. Transferring that power to her, however it happened – she wasn’t ready for that. Neither were you.” The widening in Derek’s eyes betrayed that something had finally clicked. Almost apologetically, Rosemary continued, “If she’d ascended to Alpha the way Hale daughters normally do…” she met his gaze, “…you should be dead.”

            Derek looked at her. “That only happens with our women,” he said.

            “Only because males very rarely lead the main pack,” said Grace, with a shrug. “That kind of power is transferrable in your family. You know that.” She watched him, her mouth slightly open, her fangs pointed. She added, “It’s what they were training Laura to do.”

            There was a silence as he looked at Grace, but he gaze seemed far beyond her. In the darkness, a twig on the ground cracked, as if someone stepped over it. Only the two mates glanced around, sniffing the air. The others – including one who hung back, whom Derek hadn’t seen yet – stayed, watching him with big, golden eyes.

            Then, quietly, he met Grace’s gaze. “I gave it to her,” he said, almost as a confession.

            Rosemary seemed confused. Jaz leaned in. “Gave it to her?” she repeated.

            “She was dying,” continued Derek, “and I saved her. I took her pain, and her sickness, whatever it was.”

            There was a short pause. Grace looked to Rosemary. “Would that…?”

            “Yes,” answered Rosemary, with a slow nod. “That could do it.”

            Grace let out a small sigh, almost as if disappointed. “Derek,” she said, her lips thrown out in a would-be pout. “You mean to tell me that there was an Alpha power struggle in your pack – your pack of _three_ , remember, hardly a pack at all – and you didn’t even _know?_ ”

            “He’s a Hale son, Grace,” said Jaz, looking past him, at her Alpha. “What did you expect?”

            “This has to be impossible,” said Derek disbelievingly.

            “It’s not,” said Rosemary gently, reaching out and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

            “If she were Alpha, don’t you think I would know?

            “Would you?” asked Grace. “Since you lost your status, has she shifted for you once?” Derek didn’t reply. “Have you seen her eyes?” she pressed. “Haven’t you noticed the way she treats you? The way she holds herself, the power she has? She’s in charge, and, believe me, she knows it.”

            Before Derek could open his mouth to say something, the sounds of footsteps filled all their ears, and a familiar scent wafted towards them. Derek swore and then, lowly, he murmured, “Hunters.”

            “The Argents?” asked Rosemary skeptically. “There’s only two of them left. How bad can they-” There was a sudden whistling sound, and then the male with blond hair gasped in pain, an arrow landing squarely in his back. His mate screamed in rage and empathic pain, but Grace called, “Alex, _no!_ ” Grace met Derek’s gaze, her eyes a pulsing red, and then gave some invisible signal to the rest of her pack. Alex broke the arrow out of her mate’s back and all except for one simultaneously slunk back into the forest, disappearing between the trees, the male clutching his injured shoulder.

            Rosemary seized Derek’s arm, holding him tight, jaw set, staring out at the darkness before them. Chris appeared between the trees, holding his crossbow with two hands.

            “Derek,” he said, coming to a stop before them. “And you told me you weren’t on their side.”

            “There are no sides,” said Rosemary, before Derek could speak. “You’re not going to hunt us for coming home, are you, Argent?”

            Chris looked at her, narrowing his eyes at her familiar face. “I haven’t seen you around here in a long time,” he said. “I didn’t think emissaries usually traveled with their pack.”

            “This is Beacon Hills,” she countered. “It’s a bad place for wolves. They need all the help they can get.”

            “You could say that,” replied Chris, nodding his head in assent.

            A noise behind them. Derek, unwilling to be taken by surprise this time, turned his head sharply. Allison’s bow was lowered, but not unstrung. “You shot at us,” said Rosemary simply.

            “I did,” said Chris, nodding again. “I don’t need any more panic about animal attacks in the area. If you were trying to catch my attention, consider it caught.”

            “We’re passing through,” she said, her voice hard. “You have no right to stand there and hurl accusations. Not after what your family did.”

            Chris said nothing, but watched them both as if they were test subjects under a microscope, observing their reactions. His crossbow was only half-lowered. After a moment of silence, a voice came from behind them. “We’ll be watching you,” said Allison, her eyes on the woman. Slowly, Rosemary swiveled her body, turning to look at the teenager. “The second anyone in your pack even _begins_ to toe the line…”

            She trailed off, but her point was very clear. Rosemary stared at her, then looked back at Chris. “Fresh blood,” she noted. “Let’s hope she doesn’t take after her aunt.”

            “If you have something to say,” said Allison, her voice striking and clear through the night, “you talk to me. Not him.”

            Rosemary turned to look at Allison, and for one second Derek thought she was going to growl, and her eyes were going to flicker golden. But they did not, and instead she just watched the other girl. She almost seemed impressed.

            “Very cute,” she breathed, taking a step towards Allison. “Looks like the Argents have a new matriarch.”

            There was a silence.

            And then, her eyes wide, she continued, “Have you ever wondered why your family does this…?”

            She glanced at Derek, who supplied her with a name. “Allison.”

            “Have you ever asked yourself,” continued Rosemary, without a beat, “why your family relies on their women as their leaders, Allison?”

            Allison met Rosemary’s gaze. Her eyes flickered, for just a moment, over to her father, and then her face hardened. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “Maybe because that’s the only way things would get done right around here.”

            Rosemary laughed. “That’s nice,” she said, amused. “I like that.” She paused, watching Allison, and then continued, “But that’s not it.” She stopped again, allowing for silence, and Derek saw Allison’s fingers tighten around her bow. “No,” mused Rosemary, “the Argents are this way because they reflect that which they hunt. The Hale family is very old, Allison, as is yours, and they are connected in ways you can’t even imagine.” Her eyes traveled down Allison’s body, soaking in every detail of the young leader before her. “Why do you think Derek was such an ineffective leader?” she asked, almost in humor. “Like every Hale son,” she continued breathily, less than a foot away from Allison now, she answering her own question, “he was born to be a Beta.”

            There was a silence.

            Rosemary stepped back, sweeping her hair behind her shoulders. “Just like your father is,” she called, shooting a glance towards Chris. “Which is why you have to lead. Come on, Derek. Time to go.”

            Without another look, she took hold of Derek’s arm and headed away into the forest. The Argents did not pursue them.

            They did not run, taking their slow time to head through the dense trees, profoundly human. He could tell she was following the scent of her pack, and, finally, he asked, “When did she turn you?”

            Rosemary glanced at him. “Grace?” He nodded, and she shrugged. “Not long after what happened to your family.”

            “And your pack-”

            “They weren’t _my_ pack,” said Rosemary pointedly. “They were a pack for which I was responsible. But that responsibility can be voided, and Ennis violated laws and pacts too many times for me to stay.” She looked down at the path before them, then added, “I got out in time. Before he killed them.”

            Derek watched her. “He’s dead,” he said.

            “I know,” replied Rosemary, almost bitterly. “It’s probably for the best.”

            “A druidic werewolf,” he said. “I’ve never heard of a Beta acting as an emissary.”

            “Well,” she said, flashing him a grin. “Now you have.”

            She stopped abruptly, looking at Derek with pity. He had seen her eyes turn golden, but she did not seem wolfish; instead, an indefinable air of something more-than-human hung around her, characteristic of an emissary.

            “I liked your family, Derek,” she said softly. “I was always envious of Deaton’s rapport with your mother. She came to me once, you know, after what happened with you. And the girl.”

            Derek didn’t look away, but his expression did not change.

            “You know what she tried to convince me?” she asked. Either she could not see how deeply this cut Derek, or she refused to acknowledge it. “She claimed the girl was your mate, and our laws demanded retribution.” She added, “Ennis was the one who pointed out you were too young for a mate. I’m still so sorry about that, Derek. It never should have happened.”

            “Rosemary.”   

            “I know,” she said, with a sigh. “There isn’t time for reminiscing, probably.” Her eyes sparked with color and she took his wrist, still healing from Grace’s injury. “Grace won’t stay for long,” she said. “But allow her this. This place is her home, just as much as it has been yours.”

            She squeezed his hand – a shot of pain ran up his spine – and then she disappeared, sinking back into the darkness.

            Days later, the moon was a thin silvery crescent in the sky, hanging just above a layer of clouds. Scott and Stiles stood before a door; behind them, kids ran down sidewalks, giggling, buckets in the shape of pumpkins held in their hands. “No, no, no,” said Stiles, sounding far too serious, “we have to make a pose. When she opens the door. All-” he lifted his arm, hiding his face, furrowing his brow. Laughter burst out of Scott’s mouth, and Stiles said, “You too, you too.”

            Scott struck a pose. “Yeah?

            “Use your cape. Like that.” Stiles reached out, positioned Scott’s arms.

            “Like this?”

            “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Perfect. OK.” Both of them giggling like idiots, Stiles reached out and hit the doorbell, and then quickly resumed his pose.

            A moment later, the door opened. “ _Finally_ , you two-” Lydia broke off immediately, peering at them suspiciously, then rolling her eyes. “Allison,” she called behind her. “Your dorks have arrived.”

            “ _My_  dorks?” asked Allison, coming up behind Lydia, smiling out at the boys. “Last I checked, only one of them was mine.”

            “Scott and I are a package set,” said Stiles, without dropping his cape. “Date one get one free.”

            “Your costumes are so incredibly lame,” sighed Lydia, her lips pursed, “I regret throwing this party, and giving you an excuse to leave the house wearing that.”

            “What are you  _talking_  about?” scoffed Stiles, finally standing up straight, dismissing his pose. “We look awesome.”

            He high-fived Scott. Both of them were in baggy, heavily padded superhero costumes, fake muscles bulging. Naturally, Stiles was Batman, and Scott was Superman. Lydia stepped aside to let them into the house, covered in Halloween decorations. Allison greeted her boyfriend with a kiss, and, addressing Lydia, Stiles asked, “And what are you? ”

            “Little Red Riding Hood, obviously,” she said, smoothing her wide red skirt.

            “Really?” asked Stiles dubiously. “Where’s your hood?”

            Lydia’s hands fluttered up to her head, and she blinked at him blankly. “It’d mess up my hair,” she said, eyes wide.

            It wasn’t long until people began to arrive, and soon the blood-punch had been spiked and someone turned up the bass, and the place was thrumming. Isaac had showed up in a letterman jacket and one of those cheap Halloween masks covered in hair – a teen wolf, he claimed. Although he didn’t say it, it made Stiles slightly uncomfortable.

            Lydia was taking selfies with Allison in the back when there was another knock on the door. No one else seemed to notice, all carried away by the atmosphere and the Halloween candy and the reek of teenage hormones. Scott, grinning, answered the door, Stiles on the couch, drink in hand, nearly asleep despite the loud music.

            When he opened the door, it took him a second to recognize who it was. “Hey!” he said, his eyes lighting up. Over his shoulder, shouting to be heard over the din, Scott called, “Stiles! Get over here!”

            Stiles peeked over the top of the couch dumbly, and Scott beckoned for him to come to the door, which he dutifully did, adjusting the fake muscle padding on his chest. He went to stand beside Scott, then looked out the door, and then his jaw all but dropped.

            Cora Hale stood there, her hair perfectly curled, eyes ringed with makeup, lips a bright, full red. She wore what seemed like an old, vintage dress, long and shimmery, even in the dark night, and a very old-looking bejeweled necklace hung around her neck. On top of her head, there was a small plastic tiara. She looked, as always, supremely bored. It took a moment for Stiles to realize there was another girl beside her. Sam’s short hair was slicked back and curled at the tips, and she wore a white dress covered in fringe, and a sequined band with a feather in it around her head.

            “Hello,” said Cora, but she didn’t roll her eyes, which Stiles took as a good sign. “Can we come in?”

            The boys stepped aside. “Wow, Cora,” said Scott admiringly. “You look really great. You too, Sam.”

            “Yeah,” said Stiles, still staring at Cora. “Are you a princess?"

            “No," she replied coolly, meeting his gaze. "A queen." Before Stiles could reply, Allison’s voice rang out behind them.

            “Cora! Sam!” she said warmly, coming up to them. “This is great! I didn’t know if you’d be here.”

            “Anything to get away from Derek,” muttered Cora, and Allison nodded sympathetically.

            “I’m just like that,” she said, “with my dad. You know?”

            Cora did not immediately reply, and then, giving the distinct impression that it took great effort to engage, she asked, “So what are you supposed to be?”

            “What am I supposed to be?” repeated Allison, and then she posed, making a serious face, holding up one arm firmly. “ _We can do it!_ ” she said, and she laughed. “Rosie the Riveter,” she added, when she was not quite sure Cora understood, “of course.”

            The other girl didn’t say anything to this, and Stiles intervened, leaning in towards Cora; Allison moved on, saying something to Sam. “Let me get you a drink,” said Stiles, above the din of the party.

            “You don’t have to,” replied Cora, just as loudly so that he could hear her. “I don’t get drunk.”

            “I wasn’t trying to-”

            “I know,” said Cora, sweeping her meticulously styled hair out of her face. Without quite looking at him, her eyes searching through the party, she said, voice raised: “But I kind of wish you would.”

            It took Stiles a second to process what she’d said, and then he stared at her, gaping. Still glancing around at the people in Lydia’s house, a small smile tugged on Cora’s lips, and she cocked her head ever so slightly, locking gazes with Stiles for just one moment.

            A little while later, the tempo of the party shifted, becoming smaller, lower, more intimate. In the back, Scott and Allison were hanging by the pool, arms around each other. “You make a very pretty icon of empowered femininity,” he said dreamily, his eyes fixed on her admiringly.

            She giggled. “Thanks.” Adjusting the little curl on his forehead, she replied, “You make a very convincing superhero. But we already knew that.”

            He beamed at her and leaned in, giving her a peck on the lips. “You want to go trick-or-treating with Stiles and me later? We need to go before it gets too late.”

            Giving him an odd look, she replied, “Aren’t you a little too old for trick-or-treating?”

            “No,” replied Scott, blinking at her. “You’re never too old for free candy, Allison.”

            With a laugh, she said, “Maybe I will go with you. We should invite Lydia and Isaac too.” She hesitated, then added, “And Cora.”

            He turned his head slightly, the adoring grin still on his face. “Cora?” he asked.

            “Scott,” she began patiently, “I don’t get why you two are so afraid of her. She’s just a girl.”

            “She’s Derek’s sister,” said Scott pointedly.

            “So?” asked Allison. “That gives us even more reason to be nice to her.”

            “I am being nice to her! I mean, I like her just fine, but I just don’t get the impression she likes any of us.”

            “Well,” said Allison, glancing around. “We should look out for her, anyway.”

            Scott watched her for a moment, then he asked, “Why?” When she didn’t glance back at him, he continued, “Allison. Do you know something?”

            “No,” she said, shaking her head soothingly, holding his hands. “Don’t worry about it. Did she leave already?”

            “I don’t think so,” replied Scott, as Allison let go of him, heading back into the house. “Are you  _sure_  there isn’t something you want to tell me?”

            “I just said, don’t worry about it,” said Allison, glancing in to different rooms, looking for a specific face. “It’s probably nothing.”

            “Allison,” he said, catching her by the arm. She looked back at him. Peering at her with concern, Scott asked, “Does this have anything to do with the other pack?”

            She stared at him. “How do you know about-?”

            “It’s not like they’re being all that quiet,” he said, with a shrug. “And I can – sort of feel it. When there’s a new Alpha in town.” He paused, then added, “It’s been weird lately.”

            Allison watched him for a few seconds, and then drew in close to him, lowering her voice. “Can we talk about this later?” she asked. “Maybe when we’re not in the middle of a Halloween party.” She smiled at him, and he nodded.

            “Yeah,” he said, almost enthusiastically. “OK. Can we go get candy now?”

            “There’s a huge bowl right there-”

            “I mean trick-or-treating!”

            She laughed. “Sure,” she said. “Go ask Lydia and Isaac if they want to come. Do you know where Cora went?”

            “Maybe we should ask Stiles first,” replied Scott, sounding torn. “I don’t want it being weird-”

            Allison cut him off, rolling her eyes affectionately. “I don’t mean for trick-or-treating, I mean in general. Did she leave?”

            “Oh,” said Scott. “I don’t think so. She wouldn’t leave without Sam, and I just saw her. I think she’s supposed to be a ghost or something.”

            “She’s a flapper,” said Allison, shaking her head with a pitying chuckle.

            Scott blinked blankly. “Is a flapper a kind of ghost?”

            Allison laughed and squeezed his hand. “Go get Lydia and Isaac.”

            He nodded, striking a very Superman-ish pose. “On it.” With a grin, he swept away, and Allison watched him go, then turned to continue her search for Cora. Done with the first floor, she wandered up the stairs, to where the music was slightly muted. From the end of the hall – Allison knew, Lydia’s room – she heard noises, someone moving around. Glancing behind her, she moved forward; when she reached a door she lifted her hand and then hesitated. Her eyes flickering from the doorknob to the door itself, she closed her hand into a fist and rapped sharply on the door with her knuckles.

            The distinct sounds of murmured voices, and then, after a moment, the door swung open just a crack; Lydia stood there, smoothing out her dress, her lipstick smudged. “Allison,” she said, blinking. “Do you need something?”

            Allison began, “No, I…” and then trailed off, trying to peek behind Lydia. “Who do you even have in there?”

            “Nobody important,” answered Lydia, and a male voice from within said, hazily, “Hey,” and Lydia glanced back, snapping, “ _Shush_.”

            With a giggle, Allison said, “OK, have fun.” Before Lydia closed the door, Allison added, “Wait! Do you want to go trick-or-treating later?”

            “No,” said Lydia pointedly. “I have had enough of running around in the dark with a bunch of terrifying, supernatural things to last this lifetime, thanks.”

            “OK,” said Allison fairly, nodding. “Scott and I are probably gonna take off soon.”

            Lydia looked at her expectantly. “Can I get back to my business now?” she asked.

            Laughing, Allison said, “Yes. Make smart choices.” With a small, emphatic “ _Hmph_ ,” Lydia closed the door, returning to the guy waiting on her bed.

            Downstairs, Scott was ducking through the crowd of the party. “Isaac?” he called. “Lydia?” He bumped into someone dressed as a zombie, fake blood oozing from a plastic wound on their face. “Sorry,” he murmured, feeling oddly ill at the sight. Wandering through the party, he sighed: “I _saac_ , where  _are_  y-”

            He cut off abruptly, eyes going wide. Frozen stock still, he stared across the room, and everything seemed to go eerily silent.

            Wrenching himself back to reality, Scott moved, pushing through the crowd of people, staring before him, pulse rising. Someone stood at the back of the room, eyes focused on him, otherwise completely unmoving. There was no pain in those dark eyes, only a profound emptiness, and a filmy glaze covered them, as if dirt and blood had been wiped across the corneas. There was some marking on her forehead, although he could not quite make out what it was across the room.

            Holding his body tense, refusing to let himself shake, Scott pushed through the party more urgently, and as he squeezed between a group and reached the end of the room, he breathed, “ _Erica_ -”

            The corner of the room was empty. Scott looked around wildly, and some of the kids in the group around him glanced at him, snickering. Running his hand through his hair, messing up the spit curl on his forehead, he headed back through the house.

            As the door shut, Allison turned around, glancing around the landing. She checked in the bathroom, which was empty, and then, tentatively, her parents’ bedroom which was, surprisingly, also empty. Her father’s words coming back to her, she felt a pang of responsibility verging on panic, knowing that she should have kept Cora in her sight, kept her out of danger, or whatever it was her involvement with the other pack would cause. Standing at the top of the stairs, she hesitated, unsure of what to do next. And then there was a small creak and a clicking sound. A chill ran down Allison’s spine, making her shiver, reminding her of what she had convinced herself was a dream – hot blood around her neck, a knock coming from a door behind which she was sure there was no one. The doorknob of the guest bedroom, the only room Allison hadn’t yet checked, slowly turned, and she stared at the door, her heartbeat deep and slow, suddenly realized she hadn’t tucked any weapons into her costume. Slowly, she clenched her fists. If there was anything dangerous in the house, she would stop it here.

            The door opened a sliver, and Cora slipped out of the room, closing it very gently behind her.

            “Oh,” said Allison in surprise, disguising a breath of relief. “Hi.”

            Cora glanced up at her. “Hello.”

            “I was just looking for you.”

            Her eyes flickered up and down Allison’s body. “Why?”

            “Scott and Stiles always go trick-or-treating,” replied Allison, smiling and shaking her head fondly. “I was wondering if you wanted to come with us?”

            For a moment, Cora said nothing, watching Allison.  “Stiles?” she asked. Allison nodded. Cora said, “I don’t think he’s up for trick-or-treating right now.”

            An odd strike of fear in her gut. Allison didn’t move her eyes away from Cora. “Oh?” she asked, her voice faint. “Why not?”

            There was an awkward pause, and then Cora glanced at the door of the bedroom and Allison stared at her uncomprehending for a moment. And then a realization washed over Allison and she said, “ _Oh_. Oh. Wow.” She covered her mouth and let out a surprised little laugh. “I see.” Unable to fully read the look on Cora’s face, but getting a distinct impression, she began, “There’s probably condoms in the bathroom, if that’s what you’re-”

            “ _What?_ ” asked Cora, appalled. “No.”

            “Oh,” replied Allison. “I just assumed-”

            “No,” said Cora, shaking her head. Pointing at the door behind her, her voice low, she told Allison, “He’s asleep.”

            Confusion written across her face, Allison asked, “Asleep?”

            Cora gave a noncommittal shrug, not quite looking Allison in the face.

            “Hm,” said Allison, looking at the door behind her. Eyes sliding back to Cora sympathetically, she said, “Ouch.”

            Somehow, the pink blush rising to Cora’s cheeks was incredibly endearing. Still refusing to meet Allison’s gaze, she began, “We weren’t  _doing_ …”

            “OK,” said Allison, nodding knowingly. “Is he OK? Still breathing and everything?” Cora nodded. “Then come on,” she continued, slipping her arm around Cora’s, “let’s get back to the party.”

            Scott was trailing the patio outside, which was mostly empty now. “Isaac!” he called, passing around the pool. “Isaac! Where are you!”

            He stopped, closing his eyes, listening, smelling the air. Ragged, uneven breaths came from outside the gate of the yard, Isaac’s scent sharpened by the sour smell of sweat and fear. As soon as he opened the gate, he saw him, curled up on the ground hugging himself tightly, leaning on the wall beside the gate. Scott knelt beside him, reaching out and placing a firm, calming hand on the other boy’s arm.

            “Isaac,” said Scott gently, prying Isaac’s arms up, “did you see it too?”

            Face pale, eyes frozen, Isaac nodded.

            “It’s OK,” continued Scott soothingly. “I don’t think it can hurt us.” He held onto Isaac tightly for a second, allowing him time. “It was weird to see her again,” murmured Scott, without looking at the other boy. “But I don’t think it’s her. Not really.”

            Trembling, Isaac looked up at Scott with wide eyes. “Who?” he breathed.

            Scott blinked at him. “Erica,” he replied. “Didn’t you see her too?” Isaac shook his head very slowly, mouth hanging open in terror, and Scott pressed, “Who did you see?”

            Isaac’s eyes slowly traveled over Scott’s shoulder, and he looked into the woods. He whispered: “Boyd.”

            Instantly, Scott whipped around: Boyd’s face was mere inches away from his, blood streaming down from deep wounds on his forehead, a symbol carved there, and a great, stinging pain pierced Scott’s abdomen, a hot liquid trickling down his body. He looked down and saw Boyd’s claws pressing into his body, in an eerie mirror of the other boy’s death. Scott looked up at saw eyes pulsing yellow, pointed fangs, and there was a rumbling growl in Boyd’s chest.

            And just as quickly, it was gone. Scott fell to the ground, breathing hard, pressing his hands against his stomach. There was no blood, no wound, not even a tear in the padded musculature of the Superman suit. He glanced back at Isaac, who was shaking so hard, he could barely look straight at Scott.

            The party ended not long after that. Although disappointed that they’d never gone trick-or-treating, Scott thought it was probably for the best when he had to shake Stiles awake and all but drag him back to the Jeep. He drove. Isaac was still trembling so badly that Scott insisted he ride with them, and he dropped him off, then headed to Stiles’s house. As he stopped the Jeep, he noticed the Sheriff’s car was parked in the driveway, which was unexpected; Stiles had assured him earlier that his dad was always busy all night during Halloween.

            Just as Scott was tugging a near-unconscious Stiles out of the Jeep, the front door opened and slammed shut, and the Sheriff came out to his car. “Hi boys,” he said, nodding to them, unlocking the car. “I’m heading back out again, probably be busy the rest of the night. Be-” he broke off, narrowing his eyes. Scott, looking up innocently, tried to prop Stiles up as much as possible, but his eyes were half-closed, and he muttered something unintelligible. Suspiciously, the Sheriff nodded at Stiles and asked, “Is he drunk?”

            “Uh,” said Scott, “no.”

            “Nope,” added Stiles emphatically, swaying in Scott’s grip.

            The Sheriff watched them both for a minute, then sighed. “OK,” he said. “Just get him to bed.”

            “Yes, sir,” replied Scott, as Stiles’s dad got into the car and pulled out of the driveway. Scott waved as the car disappeared down the lane, then hurried up to the door. “Jeez,” said Scott, letting them in. “You  _really_  didn’t even drink, what’s going on with you?”

            “I’m tired,” sighed Stiles, slurring his words. “It’s late.”

            “It’s not even midnight!”

            He sighed again, and Scott pulled him up the stairs. Once they were in Stiles’s room, he dropped him unceremoniously on the bed, Batman costume and all. “What is  _with_ you?” asked Scott in bewilderment, as Stiles’s eyes slowly shut.

            With a sigh, Scott began to head out of the room, and then a hand reached out and caught the cape of his costume, and Stiles’s voice came urgently: “ _Scott_. No! No.”

            Scott turned around, facing his friend. “What?” asked Scott, taking Stiles’s hand off his costume, standing at the side of the bed. “Are you OK?”

            “No,” murmured Stiles, his eyes nearly shut. “No, Scott, stay here. Don’t leave me alone. Don't leave me here alone with her.” He held on to Scott’s hand tightly, and then, to Scott’s utter surprise, he started to cry. “I don’t want to be here alone with her,” he repeated, his chin trembling, “stay here, Scott, don’t leave me…”

            “OK,” said Scott, “OK, Stiles, I’ll stay. Hold on, hold on.” Stiles lifted his other hand uselessly, and Scott took it, kneeling beside the bed. “Who? You don't want to be alone with who?”

            Stiles shook his head, writhing slightly, as if weakly struggling against Scott’s hold on his hands. “No,” he moaned. “I’m so tired.”

            “OK!” said Scott again. “Go to sleep. I’ll be right here, I promise. The whole night. Just close your eyes. Maybe it’ll help.”

            His eyes barely open, Stiles watched Scott for a moment, tears sliding down the sides of his face. And then his lids closed, and his shaky breathing evened. In under a minute, he started to snore.

            Scott glanced at the door, then realized he’d left his cell phone in the car. Grabbing Stiles’s, he quickly composed a text to his mom letting her know that he’d be staying with Stiles for the night, and then he fell into the bed beside his friend, staring up at the ceiling above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of new mythology about to be introduced! Certainly a ton about the Hale family, alluded to in this chapter :)
> 
> While I'm here let me direct you to a couple of my fanmixes relevant to this fic (I am addicted to 8tracks, I'm sorry):  
> Stora fanmix: http://8tracks.com/lusilly/next-time-i-put-my-lips-to-your-mouth  
> Hale siblings fanmix: http://8tracks.com/lusilly/this-house-doesn-t-burn  
> Hale family fanmix: http://8tracks.com/lusilly/fear-not-when-fear-not-why  
> Fanmix for this fic: http://8tracks.com/lusilly/why-have-you-come
> 
> Let me know if anything's unclear or if any edits are necessary. Thanks so much!


	6. Izanami-no-Mikoto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cora claims her power, and it begins.

Izanami-no-Mikoto

Izanami then gave birth to a fire god, Kagutsuchi, but with dire consequences. Izanami was burned during birth, and fell down to the ground. From her death, many more gods were born, including earth and water goddesses. Izangi's tears as he mourned his lover also created more deities, and in anger, he sliced Kagutuchi up with a sword. His pieces, too, became gods, and his spattered blood formed the stars of the Milky Way.

Izangi sought to return his beloved Izanami, and followed her to Yomi, the Japanese underworld. Eventually finding her in the darkness, Izangi begged her to return. She refused, and told him that she had eaten the dark food of Yomi and could not return to the world of the living. Later, though, as Izanami lay down to sleep, Izangi lit a torch to see. When he did, though, he saw his wife's decaying body. The sight shocked him, and he dropped the torch and ran.

Izanami was woken and tried to stop Izangi from leaving, but he created a barrier between the world of the living and the dead with a boulder. He announced that he would divorce his wife, and she protested saying that she would take 1,000 of the living each day if he did. Izangi replied that he would give life to 1,500 each day.

Thus, death was introduced to the world.

[x.](http://www.ancient-mythology.com/japanese/izangi-izanami.php)

 

            “So what could it have been?” asked Scott, his voice hushed. They sat in the lunchroom, their murmured conversation disguised by the hum of teenage chatter. It was all five of them again, although Lydia was leaning back in her seat, inspecting her nails, and Stiles sat with his head leaned against his hand, eyes half-closed. “Derek said it wasn't the other pack."

            “It had to be,” said Allison. “They came here looking to kill him, and now he’s dead.”

            “Yeah, but,” offered Isaac reasonably, “this is Peter. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were plenty of other people looking to rip his head off.” He considered this, then added, “Literally.”

            Scott looked inordinately distressed, and Lydia leaned forward. “Why do you even care so much?” she asked, sound almost betrayed. “You should be worrying about _me_. If that psycho tries to use me to bring him back again-”

            “That shouldn’t happen again,” Allison reassured her. “Deaton said that was only possible because his body was intact.”

            “Which would be why your family cuts them in half,” said Isaac vaguely, and Allison’s expression faltered slightly as she glanced at him.

            “Well,” she said, “yes. But decapitation should work the same way.”

            “Yeah, but,” said Stiles, sliding down until he was all but resting his head on the table, “there’s got to be some kind of freaky Hale wolf magical contingency plan for that. The ones we’ve run into so far seem pretty bad at the whole staying-dead thing.”

            Scott looked at all of them, sitting there with look on his face like he was burning, waiting to say something. Allison said his name, and her hand flickered across the table, taking his. “What is it?” she asked.

            He met her gaze for a moment, then, his voice getting even quieter, he spoke. “It makes sense that it was the other pack,” he admitted, “but Derek said it wasn’t, and I kind of believe him. Listen, if their Alpha killed Peter, then Derek and Cora’s alliances should have shifted to her. Right?”

            Allison nodded. “Right.”

            “So they would have gotten stronger,” pressed Scott. “You said the other pack has, what, six Betas?”

            “Five.”

            “So they should be that much stronger,” continued Scott. “And – Isaac, I don't know about you, but-” he looked at Isaac, then glanced across the lunchroom, where Cora was sitting with Sam, talking to her quietly. A small smile graced her lips. “I can’t tell any difference.”

            “Neither can I,” added Isaac, “but you’re better at this than I am.”

            “OK,” said Allison, “but if it wasn’t them, what’s the alternative?”

            He glanced around them. Even Lydia watched him, captured by the almost frightened look on his face. “This…thing,” he whispered. “The other night, at the party, what Isaac and I both saw. What you told me about your mom, Allison, and then a while ago, when you had that – vision, or something, Lydia.” He paused, then continued, “Even whatever’s happening to Stiles, making it so he can’t sleep. And now, Peter getting killed. It’s got to be connected, and it’s affecting everyone, not just the three of us who went under last year.”

            “Y’know,” said Stiles, cutting him off; his mouth moved lazily, making him slur his words slightly, “I really, really doubt that my circadian rhythm being royally screwed up has anything to do with your weird haunting stuff. Insomnia doesn’t generally fall under the same category of traumatizing horror as prophesizing the gruesome, totally disgusting deaths of all your friends.” Lydia shot him a dirty look, but Scott continued.

            “Dude,” he said, turning to his friend. “You should’ve heard yourself the other night. You wouldn’t let me leave, you were so scared. You kept saying that you didn’t want somebody to come back. Don’t you remember any of that?”

            “No,” replied Stiles, closing his eyes, head lying on the table before him. “Aw, Scott, you don’t have to make up excuses to snuggle up with me. Anytime, bro.”

            “I’m not kidding,” stressed Scott. “You started crying, you were so scared.”

            “ _Dude_ ,” said Stiles self-consciously, glancing around.

            “Scott,” said Allison, her brow knit in concern. “What’s your point?”

            “My point,” replied Scott, “is that – maybe this _thing_ isn’t just in our heads, or our hearts, or whatever. It’s like it’s hunting us, waiting for the right moment. And if it killed Peter, then it can kill us.” He let out a little breath, and met his girlfriend’s gaze. “So maybe it’s time we started hunting it back.”

            After a moment, a small smile lit up Allison’s face. Quietly, she answered, “I like the sound of that.”

            “Where do we start?” asked Isaac. “All we know about it is the dead people it keeps using to torture us. That doesn’t give us anything.”

            “Yeah, but there’s been some other weird stuff around lately, too,” replied Scott. “Something in the air, something I can’t even describe. And Stiles found something else, too.”

            “What?” muttered Stiles, his eyes fluttering half-open. Sounding loosely curious, he asked, “Did I?”

            “About the cemetery,” prompted Scott, and Stiles nodded his head.

            “Oh, yeah,” he began, clearing his throat. “There was a grave robbery. Or something. Sounded pretty weird. You’ll never guess whose body was taken.”

            “Laura Hale,” said Lydia immediately. “Derek’s sister.”

            They all looked around at her.

            She was pale. Blinking, she glanced up at all of them. “I saw it,” she said, her voice faint. “The empty grave. I thought I was just imagining it, but…”

            “And there’s something else,” said Allison, looking back to Scott, eyes narrowed in thought. “On the – when I saw my mother, she had a symbol, right here.” She put a finger to her forehead. “Carved into her skin.”

            Scott leaned in eagerly. “That’s right,” he said, in awe. “Isaac, didn’t you see? Boyd had something on his forehead, too. And so did Erica, and Matt too.”

            “Maybe that’s some kind of sign,” responded Allison. She reached down and dug into her backpack, taking out a notebook and a pen. Opening the notebook to a blank page, she continued, “Maybe it could lead us to whatever is doing this to us.”

            “But I didn’t get a good look at it,” said Scott, watching her. “What was it? A spiral?”

            She shook her head, tracing something carefully onto the paper. “Not exactly,” she replied, “I remember because it looked so familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen it before.” she put the pen down and turned the notebook around, showing it to all of them. It was a wide shape with three sweeping corners, and a circle woven through the middle. Scott took the notebook, staring at it.

            Lydia leaned in. “I’ve seen that,” she said offhandedly.

            “What?” asked Allison, her gaze snapping to the other girl.

            “Mhm,” replied Lydia, nodding. “It’s a trefoil knot.” At everyone’s black expressions, she continued, “It’s the simplest possible nontrivial knot.” After another moment’s confusion, she sighed impatiently and clarified, “It’s a, what’s it called, a trinity knot.” She held out her left hand and slipped a ring off her index finger, held it up in the middle of the group. With one manicured finger, she pointed at the markings around the edges. Sure enough, the symbol was almost identical to the one Allison had drawn. “It’s engraved on a lot of wedding rings,” she told them. “The three strings are supposed to bring love, honor, and faithfulness. Or something, I don’t know.” She slipped it back onto her finger. “Clearly, it didn’t work for my parents, anyway.”

            Staring up at her hazily, Stiles asked, “Why are you wearing your mom’s wedding ring?”

            Lydia shrugged, spinning the ring on her finger. “She’s not using it.”

            There was a moment when Scott considered this, glancing between them all. And then, sliding the notebook back across the table to Allison, he said, “This is out of our league.” He paused, then said: “Maybe it’s time we ask Derek for help.”

            After school let out, Derek drove his sister home in silence. She said nothing, staring out the window the whole time, and neither did he. They were nearly back, turning down a small road around the edge of town, when Cora suddenly said, “Stop here, Derek.”

            He glanced at her. “What do you-”

            “Derek,” she said, her voice hard and hostile in the small space of the car. He looked at her once more, then pulled over onto the side of the road, where the asphalt gave way to the earthy ground of the forest. The car stopped, and they sat there, listening to the _tink-tink-tink_ of the cooling engine.

            Then, staring straight ahead of her, Cora asked, “Are we going to talk about this?”

            Derek looked around them. Warily, he began, “I was gonna wait until we weren’t stuck in an enclosed space, but yes, I was planning on it eventually.”

            “I don’t like the way you look at me.”

            He turned his body in the seat to face her, lips slightly parted, looking perplexed. “What does that mean?” he asked. “I’m not looking at you any different-”

            “That’s what I mean,” she said bitterly, cutting him off, her shoulders slumped, eyes focused out the windshield before her. "You're pretending like you don't know. Why?” She was silent, and then she asked: “Are you afraid of me?”

            He stared at her. “Cora,” he said. “Nothing has to be different-”

            "Things _are_ different, Derek," she shot back, her gaze snapping up to him. "What do you want? Do you want to pretend we're still just brother and sister? Do you want to pretend Peter isn't dead? What about Laura? Mom and Dad?" She let out a pained, frustrated breath, and then said, "Stop telling me things don't have to change. They've already changed." _  
_

Neither of them said anything for a moment; Derek, it seemed, could find no words to say. Then, without a second look, Cora darted out of the car, slamming the door behind her. He followed her more slowly, slipping out of the car, standing on one side, reaching his arms across the top of the car. Cora stumbled away from the side of the road, then straightened up, staring into the forest. A breeze blew through her long hair, and she lifted her hands to her face, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.

            “Cora,” he said again. There was guilt in his voice, but he did not entirely know why, and it cut her deeply, wounding her like fire, hating the responsibility he did not need to shoulder in his voice. For a moment he said nothing, struggling to find the words, and then he said: “I promise you’re safe. Do you hear me, Cora? I don’t know what happened to Peter, but I will kill _all_ of them before I let anything touch you. I would die in a _second_ for-”

            “Die for something worthwhile,” she said, her voice loud, speaking over him. “If you’re desperate to throw yourself in front of a bullet, do it for someone who could use the protection.”

            She looked over her shoulder, one eye meeting his.

            Quietly, she said, “I'm not talking about Peter,” and she blinked, and she turned to look at him with both eyes pulsing scarlet red, like the blood pumping in their bodies.

            There was silence in between them.

            Derek tore his eyes away from her, looking out at the street around them. A car shot down the road, past them. And then he said, “I knew already, didn’t I? I’ve known for a while. But you took it from me.” He remembered the wound on the back of his neck, when he had woken up from a haunting dream, blood seeping from a slit through which she had taken his memory. Cora did not immediately reply.

            And then, slowly, she took a step towards him. “I didn’t know how it happened,” she replied. “I didn’t know why. All I knew is that I took this from you, Derek, and I hate the way you shut up and listen to me, like you want to take _orders_ from me.” She stared up at him, the corners of her mouth curved downwards, her lip trembling. Her red eyes seemed to hang in the afternoon air, iridescent and separate from her body, leaving a glowing neon trail when she moved. “I didn’t ask for this,” she said, her voice hard. “I’m not Mom, or Laura, or Peter, or you. I have the eyes and the power, but I never wanted to be Alpha.”

            He watched her. Then, just as suddenly as she’d begun, she turned on her heels and darted away, into the forest. Shoving his keys into his pocket, Derek ran around the car, heading after her. “Cora!” he called. “ _Cora!_ ”

            Dimly, he could pick up her scent, following it deep into a forest. At first he thought she was taking him to their old home, but he quickly passed that. As he glimpsed the burnt-out husk from between the trees, he realized it had been weeks since he last set foot in the place.

            As they moved on and Derek threaded through the woods, the path began to seem familiar, and all at once he realized where it was that Cora was headed. She stopped before he did, and he followed her scent to where she stood in the small clearing, staring at the thing before her.

            On the huge, old, gnarled stump of the tree, a body was lain out perfectly, throat cut, arms splayed out, a long stake of wood pierced through his chest. Cora moved, approaching it, and Derek whispered her name and reached out to hold her back but she shook off his touch, stepping forward, staring at the body. It was a man with golden blonde hair and dark eyes, glassy and reflective in the gray light.

            His voice pained, Derek said, “He’s from Grace’s pack.”

            Cora sniffed pointedly. “I could tell,” she said, her voice soft.

            Neither of them said anything. His insides hot and sour, Derek said, “He had a mate.”

            At first, Cora did not react to this. And then she glanced back at him, eyes red, fangs bared. She growled, “I know,” and at that exact moment came a screaming hiss, and a body collided with Cora’s; Derek yelled her name in alarm, then let out a howling roar, launching himself towards his sister, reaching out to tear the redheaded werewolf off of her. Before he could touch her, Cora shouted, “ _She’s mine!_ ” and the authority in her voice was such that Derek could do nothing but stop, hating himself, hating the color of his eyes.

            Grace’s Beta – her name was Alex – had Cora pinned to the ground, a hand around her throat. Gasping for breath, Cora hissed, “I didn’t do this.”

            “Like I’d believe you,” uttered the other woman, hatred dripping down her voice, billowing around her in waves. “The famous and feared Hale pack, reduced to an Alpha and her Beta – you’d do anything to get your power back.” She tightened her grip around Cora’s throat. Lowering her face close to Cora’s, her eyes lit up and livid, Alex continued, “But I’m going to teach you something you Hales never learned, not even the day they locked you in that house and burned your family to the ground.” She lifted her claws, sunk them into the skin of Cora’s face, raked down her cheek. “There are _consequences_ to your actions.”

            The woman jerked back, off of Cora, and screamed; Derek had her by the neck, squeezing hard. “Derek!” shouted Cora, baring her teeth, eyes wide in fury. “Let her _go!_ ”

            “She’s got her pack’s power behind her,” countered Derek, “but we can take her together!” He held the struggling wolf; she kicked his legs, hard, slashing at his arms, throwing him to the ground. Cora threw herself at the werewolf, knocking her to the ground.

            “You _killed him!_ ” shrieked Alex, writhing underneath Cora. Spittle gathered around her mouth, and her eyes rolled in their sockets, the frenzied grief of a widowed mate.

            With one fluid movement, Cora swung her hand forward and hooked her claws underneath the werewolf’s chin, piercing through the skin. An ugly gurgling noise came from her throat, and she stared up at Cora with stunned eyes, the agony hardly yet registering in her body.

            “Listen to me,” said Cora. “You take this back to your Alpha.” Warningly, Derek took a step towards his sister, said her name. She ignored him. “If you,” began Cora softly, readjusting her grip in the fleshy patch between the wolf’s chin and throat, “ _touch_ my brother. If you come _near_ him.” She was silent. She slipped her claws out of the woman’s throat, so quickly Derek barely saw the moment when the blood began to seep. “Then I will kill you,” Cora said calmly, “all.”

            Cora stood up, feet on either side of the woman’s body. She lifted her hands, pressing them to her throat, trying to stem the bleeding. With one final look at her, Cora let out a breath and turned around, wiping her bloodied hands on her clothes.

            With difficulty, Alex pulled herself up to her feet, and then she let out a primal sputtering, gurgling sound that might have been a roar, if her throat had not been slashed open, and she threw herself at Cora. Barely blinking, Cora whipped around and held out her hands and inserted her claws once more into the open wound, then with the claws of her other hand she pierced the skin and tissue at the back of the woman’s neck, and with a great heaving thrust she twisted and pulled, and the woman’s body crumpled, blood spilling out of the gaping wound of her neck onto the ground.

            Slowly, Cora turned her head, looking at the corpse before her, the woman’s head still held in her hands.

            Dropping it beside the body, Cora said quietly, “I guess I’ll just have to tell Grace myself.”

            When she looked up at Derek, he flinched away from her red-hot gaze. Staring at the head separated from body, an eerie echo of another body ignited in his mind, and he did not dare to look up at his sister. “Cora,” he began, his voice weak. He looked up at her, and said: “You killed Peter.”

            She stared at him, hard. And then she nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

            There was a silence.

            Then she moved towards him; in fear, he stepped back, and she stopped. Peering up at him beseechingly, blood still dripping from her claws, smeared onto her face, she implored him, “I didn’t want to. I went there to warn him, I swear, that’s all. But he knew how much I idolized Laura and he – you _know_ he never trusted me, and he thought I was going to sell him out.” Moving towards Derek again, he did not back away, and he reached out and took hold of his arm. The blood soaked into his clothes, spreading with the stitch of the fabric. She looked up at him, searching his eyes. “He attacked me,” she told him, almost as if begging. “He would have killed me, but he didn’t know I was an Alpha too.” She let go of her brother, looking down at the dirt below them. “I didn’t know what I was capable of,” she said, sounding haunted. “I didn’t know I could do that to…anybody. Much less my _family_ , Derek.”

            She looked up at him, and then she moved forward again, and, in the gray light filtering through the trees, with a decapitated body bleeding on the ground and another lying crucified on the wide surface of the Nemeton, Cora hugged her brother, burying her face in his chest.

            “I don't know what to do,” she whispered. “I don't like being this way. I hate this power.”

            He looked behind her, at the bodies, at the dark forest around them. And then he wrapped his arms around her sister, his eyes glinting icy blue, but he said nothing, unable to promise her that which she wanted to hear.

-

            They met Scott’s pack in the loft. Scott entered first, leading Allison, Isaac, Stiles, and Lydia on the end. Cora stood at the table, waiting for them, and Derek hung back, his deep, dark eyes fixed on Scott. “Really?” called Cora, looking at all five of them. “You had to bring the whole pack?”

            “There’s something after us,” said Scott steadily, approaching her. “We’re safer together.”

            “You think that,” observed Cora, meeting his gaze, “because you’ve never seen what fire can do to a crowded room.” Scott didn’t reply to this, but glanced back at Derek, who did not move. Her eyes slid past Scott, briefly resting on Stiles, and then she said, “You found something.”

            “Yeah,” said Allison, moving forward. From her bag, she pulled a sheet of paper with the symbol drawn onto it. “We want to know if you can tell us anything about this.”

            For a moment, Cora did not move, staring down at the paper. And then she picked it up, inspecting it carefully. Derek didn’t move, but he narrowed his eyes, staring at the paper over Cora’s shoulder. Lowly, she asked, “Where did you get this?”

            “We’ve all been seeing it,” replied Scott.

            She stared at him. “Where?”

            Scott didn’t say anything.

            Her eyes slit behind him, to where Stiles stood. “Stiles,” she said, turning the paper over, showing it to them. “Where have you seen this?”

            With a confused blink, Stiles opened his mouth to reply, but Scott instantly said, his voice hard, “Don’t answer that.”

            After a second, her eyes slid back to Scott. She looked at the paper again, and then held it out beside her. Derek finally moved forward, still standing slightly behind her, and took the paper, scrutinizing the symbol. “We’ve seen it before,” replied Cora guardedly, eyeing the others.

            When she did not continue, Scott prompted, “Where?”

            She watched him, and it seemed that she considered her answer for a long time. With a glance towards her brother, she finally relented, the tension in her posture relaxing slightly. She leaned her hands on the table before her and said, “Our mother had it tattooed on her back.”

            Scott watched them, mouth hanging slightly open, baffled. “What?” he asked. “What does it mean?”

            “It’s a version of the triskele,” muttered Derek, tracing his fingers along the contours of the drawing. “Alpha, Beta, Omega.”

            “But,” said Cora, still watching Scott, “it means something else. Something more.” She took the paper out of Derek’s hands and held it out, handing it back to Scott. “It’s a symbol of our family,” she said. “Like a claim, or a brand.” Glancing at her brother, she said bluntly, “You wouldn’t know it. Nobody expected you to be Alpha one day.” Allison’s gaze flickered to Derek, but if he reacted to the comment, she could not tell. “It’s not used for anything,” she said to Scott. “It’s a symbolic thing. The mark was passed down from mother to daughter when the rank of Alpha was transferred, but I guess that tradition died with our mom.”

            Her voice echoed slightly in the room, faltering slightly on the final word.

            She glanced past Scott’s face. Something like a smile tugged on her lips, and she said, “Stiles.”

            “Don’t talk to him,” growled Scott, and Cora rolled her eyes.

            “Relax,” she said. “If I wanted another Beta, Scott, I would bite him, not date him.” Nodding past Scott, she said, “Just get him home. He's no use to either of us when he's unconscious.”

            Scott glanced around; Stiles was leaning against a wall, arms folded, chin tucked into his chest. He was, Scott realized, embarrassed for his friend, snoring softly. When Scott glanced at Isaac, he went over to Stiles, pulling at him, waking him up. “Lydia,” said Scott, “go with Isaac.”

            Glancing back at Stiles, Lydia began, “Why do I have to-” but Allison cut her off, firmly but gently saying her name. Annoyance painted across her face, she went to Stiles’s side, and she and Isaac helped him out of the place.

            They all turned around to face each other again. The tension was palpable in the room, a heavy fog, dense and opaque, between Scott and Cora. After a few moments, Allison shot through it, her words light and comically grotesque. She asked, drolly, “Who died and made you Alpha?”

            Cora’s gaze snapped to the other girl. She cocked her head slightly, narrowing her eyes.

            “That’s another thing,” said Scott, after shooting Allison a look at which she did nothing but offer a halfhearted shrug. “We think there’s something out there, something besides the other pack, and whatever it is, it killed Peter. Whatever it is that’s affecting us – and there is something, although we don’t know what it is yet – it’s not just some side-effect of what happened last year – it’s dangerous. If it killed him, it could kill one of us too.”

            Something shifted in the air. Cora crossed her arms, watching them, and Derek would not lift his sight off the ground.

            “Sure,” said Cora. “The other pack could probably kill you. They’re the ones who killed Peter, after all.”

            Scott blinked. “But Derek said-”

            “Derek was wrong,” said Cora sharply.

            There was a silence. And then Allison began: “OK. But if they killed Peter…then why are you the Alpha now?”

            Cora didn’t say anything. Her gaze raked over to Allison, like iron nails scraping against concrete. Her voice softer and yet somehow infinitely more threatening, she asked, “Let me ask you something, Argent.” The deep hatred and revulsion in her voice turned the name into something more like an oath. “Not that I’m complaining, but don’t you think a the whole skewered-on-the-Nemeton thing is a little dramatic, even for your family?”

            Allison stared at Cora. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

            “You’re hunting the other pack,” Cora shot back, “after we explicitly told you they were  _our_  responsibility. It’s not as if Peter was innocent, or defenseless – you have no reason to go after them.”

            “We didn’t,” replied Allison, with authority in her voice to rival Cora’s. “We haven’t touched the other pack. We’re tracking them, but we haven’t even seen them, besides the emissary.”

            “Right,” said Cora, leaning forward, eyes wide, “then you tell me how it was one of them ended up stuck through the heart with mistletoe, pinned to the Nemeton.”

            “That’s impossible,” said Scott.

            “We saw it,” pressed Cora. “Your girlfriend is a hunter before anything else, Scott, don’t forget that.”

            “No, I mean,” began Scott, shaking his head. “A sacrifice on the Nemeton. That’s literally impossible. It caved in after what happened last year.”

            About to continue, Cora trailed off. She and Derek exchanged glances, and when he caught her eye, she nodded. “If it did,” he said, “it’s fixed now. It didn’t look any different than it has for years.” He paused, added, “Except, of course, for the dead body.”

            “We didn’t do it,” said Allison, shaking her head. “Maybe whatever killed Peter killed one of them too.”

            Cora’s eyes flashed red and she slammed her hands on the table, baring her fangs. “I just told you,” she hissed. “ _They_  killed Peter.”

            Allison said nothing to this, watching Cora warily.

            Sweeping her long hair back, Cora said, “We’re done here.”

            “Fine,” said Scott. “But if you find anything else-”

            “Stay out of this,” she said lowly, glaring at him. “You’ll just get hurt.”

            “Which is my  _point_ ,” said Scott desperately. He looked away from Cora, appealing to Derek, standing silently beside her. “I’m trying to figure out what’s going on,” he said, “so that nobody else gets hurt. So I can protect everybody. But I can’t  _do_  that unless you help me!” Derek didn’t look up, eyes fixed on the ground. Scott lowered his face, trying to catch Derek’s gaze. “Derek,” he said. “Please.”

            Cora stepped in front of her brother. “Leave,” she said stonily. “You can keep your pathetic Betas, human or not, but you will  _not_  touch mine.” She stared at him, her lips slightly parted, as if words on the tip of her tongue. “We’re barely a pack,” she said quietly, “but we still  _are_  a pack. And you will respect that,” she said, “or I will tear your head off of your body.”

            They left after that.

            Once they heard the sound of Stiles’s Jeep fading into the distance, both of the Hales let out a silent sigh of relief. Cora collapsed into a seat before the table, her fingers at her forehead. Derek watched her, arms crossed. And then he leaned against the table, looking down at her, and he asked, “What did you say about dating Stiles?”

            She glanced up at him, then pressed her hands against her forehead, as if hiding her face. “Don’t start.”

            He made a face, and shrugged. “There are worse options out there.”

            “Like any one of your old girlfriends?”

            “Yeah,” he sighed, patting her on the shoulder, then heading away. “You’re definitely an Alpha, Cora. Suits you well.”

            Late that night, Allison sat on her bed, phone pressed to her ear. “There’s something weird going on,” said Scott on the other line, his voice tinny and artificial through the phone. “I don’t know what to believe about this other pack. I haven’t even met them yet.”

            “Have you been looking for them?” she asked, playing with the thin silver chain around her neck.

            “Kind of. But – it’s weird. It’s kind of like they’re avoiding me. Like they don’t want a fight. To be honest it’s kind of like – it’s like a bunch of Omegas, you know? Like they’re too scared to engage.” Lost in thought, he added, “There’s something about them Derek doesn’t want us to know.”

            “Something  _Cora_  doesn’t want us to know,” corrected Allison. “You saw the way she was controlling him. She barely let him talk to you.”

            When Scott spoke again, he seemed unsure. “They’re family, though,” he said. “He would die for her. I don’t know what’s going on, Allison, but I’m not about to question the two of them. Not after what they’ve been through for each other.”

            Allison didn’t answer, and then she rubbed her eyes. “OK,” she said. “I need to go to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            “Yeah, see you. Goodnight.”

            “’Night.” She hung up the phone, staring at it in her hand for a moment. Then, with a deep breath, she stood up, heading across the room and sitting down before her mirror. Her eyes were dark, and there were bags beginning to appear under them. With distaste, inspecting the darkness under her eyes, she took out a white cleansing pad and wiped it across her skin, removing the last vestiges of her makeup for the day. She dropped the pad in the trash beside her, and then something caught her eye. The large square pendant – her family’s crest – sat on top of an old book. It was a book she had not opened in a long time, and there were traces of dust along the outside pages. Taking it in her hands gently, she opened it, flipping through the pages, remembering the first time she learned the story of  _la Bête du Gévaudan._

            She turned through the pages, something lodged at the back of her mind, some memory that seemed important, but she could not quite recall. Still examining the book, she turned the pages more slowly now, scanning through the letters, as if searching for something.

            Another page, and she froze, staring down at the book before her. Heart beating hard, she turned, pulling open her bag, searching for something. A breeze blew in from the open window, fluttering the paper as she finally extracted it and laid it down flat on the desk beside the book. On both pages, there was a shape with three curved points, and a circle threading through the middle, like the symbol which had been carved into the ghost of her mother’s forehead. She peered down at the text, searching for some explanation of what it could mean.

             _The Triquetra_ , she read,  _originally a pagan concept, was said to be an indicator of caves and dens where the Beast would reside. Its presence or appearance in a village was generally considered a harbinger of great death and disruption_.

            Allison stared at the symbol before her, breathing low and slowly. Tucking the paper into the book in order to save the spot, she stood up again, brushing her long hair back, stretching her limbs. A chill ran down her spine and she went to the window to close it and keep out the cold draft. Her eyes focused on the window itself, she tugged it down and then glanced through the glass, at the street below. She looked away and then something shot into her body, resonating deep in her chest, and she slowly turned back to the window, squinting out into the darkness.

            Hovering ominously in the middle of the street, something dark and on four legs stood unmoving, its snout upturned, as if staring straight into her window. It was far too large to be a coyote, but was covered in thick fur, and its eyes reflected the light coming out of her window and out of streetlamps, shining up at her blindly. The wolf did not move.

            Profoundly disturbed, she stepped away from her window, closing the curtains, her heart pounding. Although her father still did not allow a lock on her door, she took her chair and propped it up under the doorknob, out of fear of something she could not quite explain. The animal’s preternatural eyes stayed with her, burned onto her mind, and she curled up tightly in bed that night, one hand clenched beneath her pillow around the hilt of a knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some ///major// chapter reworking, so now there'll be 14 chapters instead of 13. So next chapter will be posted probably on Monday the 9th, to maintain our schedule. This chapter is also about 1,000 words shorter than it was originally going to be. Reminder that although this fic is finished, it certainly isn't set in stone, and if you have any suggestions or feedback, let me know! Thanks so much.
> 
> Also - the "This isn't you" teaser doesn't fit ///perfectly// for this fic, but I'd definitely keep an eye on Allison, and the wolf watching her...


	7. Olapa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles can't sleep, and it takes its toll. Allison is looking for something, and it knows she is.

Olapa

In the beginning the sun married the moon. They travelled together for a long time, the sun leading and the moon following. As they travelled, the moon would get tired and the sun would carry her for three days every month.

   One day the moon made a mistake and she was beaten by the sun in just the same way women are beaten by their husbands. When she was beaten, she fought back, and wounded the sun's forehead. The sun also beat the moon and scratched her face and plucked out one of her eyes.

   When the sun realised that he was wounded, he said to himself, "I am going to shine so hard that people will not be able to look at me." And so he shone so hard that people could not look at him without squinting. That is why the sun shines so brightly.

   As for the moon, she did not feel any shame and so she did not have to shine any brighter. And even now, if you look closely at the moon, you will see the wounds that the sun inflicted on her during their fight.

[x.](http://www.bluegecko.org/kenya/tribes/maasai/stories-sunmoon.htm)

            The next day, Stiles wasn’t there as the bell rang and first period began. Scott got out his phone and tried to stealthily send a text, but the teacher said, “Put it away, McCall,” and he nodded, opening his backpack, and doing, he thought, a convincing job of pretending to slip his phone in. It wasn’t a minute or so later that the teacher said once more, sharply, “ _McCall_ ,” but then the door to the classroom opened and Stiles stumbled in, and Scott breathed in relief. Stiles handed a note to the teacher and then headed down to sit right behind Scott, a spot he’d deliberately saved for his friend.

            “Dude,” whispered Scott, “is everything OK?”

            “Yes,” replied Stiles glumly. “My dad’s super late to work _and_ I didn’t finish any homework for today, but sure, everything’s friggin' fantastic.”

            With genuine, sincere concern, the likes of which Stiles had envied for a long time, Scott asked, “Why is your dad late to work?”

            Stiles let out a breath of impatience and frustration and said, “He drove me. He said I didn’t look up to driving myself. I was _gonna_ stay home, but my grades are-” he broke off, shaking his head, lowering his face to his desk. “I hate everything,” he mumbled. “I want to go home.”

            “Are you still not sleeping?” asked Scott.

            “No, Scott,” said Stiles irately, lifting his head enough to look at his friend, “I was busy all night sexting my girlfriend. Of _course_ I’m not sleeping, this – this _thing_ won’t just leave me alone…”

            Scott grinned at him. “All right, man,” he said. “Your first real girlfriend. Right on! When did it get official? At the party?”

            Stiles looked at him in something verging on disgust.

            Scott’s expression faltered. “Oh… you were kidding?”

            The other boy raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I was kidding.”

            “Sorry,” said Scott. After another moment, he added, “I don’t get it. It didn’t look like you were having any trouble sleeping that night I was there. After all the crying and stuff died down, you slept the night.”

            “That’s the thing,” pressed Stiles, eyes red, face haggard. “We need to have sleepovers more often, or something, because the whole time you were there, it was fine. It was regular sleep. But the second I’m alone – it’s like something’s holding me back. Like, literally, physically holding me. Like I can’t breathe.”

            Frowning, Scott asked, “Like a panic attack?”

            “Yes,” he insisted. “And it’s just weird, because it’s been forever since I-” he stopped abruptly. He glanced around, and then he continued, his voice lower, “Anyway, I don’t have problems with that anymore. And what’s even worse,” he continued petulantly, “is that I had that _one_ good night, and now it’s worse than ever. It’s killing me. Did you know you can die from lack of sleep faster than you can die from lack of water? Yeah. You just sit pretty knowing I’m like _this close_ away from death by sleep deprivation.” He shook his head sadly, clenching his jaw. “After all the insanity and weird supernatural creatures we’ve seen,” he said weightily, “to die an insomniac would just be insulting.”

            “Stilinski,” called the teacher. “Do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”

            He lifted his head. “Uh, yes,” he said, glancing around. “Does anybody want to let me copy the homework from last night?”

            The class broke out in giggling laughter, and the teacher rolled their eyes, threatened detention, and then returned to work. After a moment, Scott leaned back and whispered, “Can you keep your eyes open for the rest of the day? Allison says she found something about the symbol.”

            “Oh, wonderful,” muttered Stiles. “ _More_ insanity and weird supernatural creatures. Just what I need.”

            After the last bell rang and school let out, Scott dragged Stiles out to Allison’s car, where they stood together. She pulled an old book out of her backpack and opened it, laying it on the roof of the car. “Look,” she said. “It’s the same symbol. Lydia was right, it’s called a triquetra, and it used to mark the territory of the original beast that my family killed.” She looked up at them. “If Cora was right,” she continued, “and it’s a symbol of the Hale family, then that could mean that my family and theirs have been-”

            Two loud honks resounded in the parking lot. They all turned around, and then Stiles let out a deep sigh, pulling his hand down across his face. Parked right outside the school was the sheriff’s car, _BEACON HILLS COUNTY SHERIFF_ branded in huge letters on the side. The sheriff himself stepped out of the car and looked up at them, then held up a hand to wave at Stiles. “OK,” said Stiles, turning away. “If we just pretend we don’t see him…”

            Allison glanced behind them. “I don’t really think that’s going to-”

            “ _Shh_ ,” hissed Stiles, taking her arm and pulling her to look away, but it was too late. His father was already sidling up to Allison’s car.

            “Scott, Allison,” he said, nodding to the both of them. Then he looked at his son. “Stiles,” he said.

            “ _Dad_ ,” he said, the parody in his voice not quite coming through, what with his strained, indistinct character of speech, “are you really gonna embarrass me in front of my _friends_?”

            “Well,” said his father, taking hold of his arm, “the day is young. And you have about two weeks of homework to catch up on, not to mention enough extra credit to make up a month's worth of failed tests.” To Scott and Allison, he said, “Sorry, Stiles can’t hang out today.”

            “Um,” said Scott, “OK.” When Stiles shot him a look of betrayal, he shrugged pointedly, unsure of what to do.

            “You two take care,” he said, nodding to the other two teenagers, and then, still holding on to his son’s arm, he headed back to the car.

            “Dad!” said Stiles, struggling to get out of his father’s grip. “This isn’t fair! I have things to do with them!”

            “Things to do?” repeated the Sheriff, nodding for Stiles to get into the car. Going around and slipping into the driver’s side, he asked seriously, “Is that why you’ve been so tired lately? Because you’ve got so many _things to do_ with Scott? Or with Derek Hale?”

            “No,” replied Stiles obstinately, sinking low in the seat. As they left the school parking lot, students were peering into the car, trying to see if there was anyone in the back seat. “I’m so tired lately because I can’t _sleep_.”

            “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

            “It’s not that I’m _not_ sleeping, it’s that I _can’t_ sleep. There’s a very subtle yet incredibly important difference.”

            “Don’t give me that, Stiles. Just answer the question.”

            “I don’t know!” exploded Stiles, his voice heightening to a shout. He buried his face in his hands and groaned. “I feel like it’s–" he broke of suddenly. After another moment, without looking up, he muttered,  "I feel like I’m eight years old again. I can't do this."

            He trailed off and fell silent. The Sheriff looked at his son, then back at the road. He reached out and put his hand on Stiles’s back. “Yes, you can,” he said. “We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” He paused, then added, “But this doesn’t get you out of doing your homework.”

            That night, Stiles’s father was gone, working late to make up for the time he’d taken off to bring Stiles to and from school. An odd, indistinct sort of guilt lingered in Stiles’s stomach, as it always did when he thought too much about the sacrifices his father had to make. He had been doing homework for hours at his desk, and he was exhausted. Despite the dull, now-ubiquitous fear that pounded at the back of his skull, he fell into bed.

            Over an hour later, he sat back up. Every time he began to drift off, he thought of something important that he had to think about, and his mind raced, refusing to let him go to sleep. Beneath his buzzing mind, there was an impending sense of terror rising in his gut, so desperate not to suffer like every night. He got up and shuffled to the bathroom, leaning into the mirror, inspecting the gross, translucent skin beneath his eyes.

            Again, the next morning, Stiles wasn’t in first period. But he didn’t walk in halfway through. Scott texted him, and there was no reply. Between class, Scott called him. Allison reassured him that Stiles was probably just taking a day off to catch up on sleep, and this was more than plausible, but as soon as the bell rang for lunch, he ran out to his bike and headed towards Stiles’s house, just to make sure.

            The Jeep was in the driveway. Scott knocked on the front door, and rang the doorbell three or four times. Then, when there was no reply, he scaled up the side of the house onto the roof and crept along until he found Stiles’s room. The window was locked, but the blinds were open, and he could see that it was empty.

            Unsure of what to do, he hovered by the window for a moment, suddenly afraid.

            And then he went back to his bike and rode down to the Sheriff’s office. He barely had his helmet off by the time he went in and, breathlessly, he asked the woman at the counter, “Hi, is Sheriff Stilinski here?”

            “No,” she replied, “not at the moment. There was a family emergency.”

            Something dropped like a stone into Scott’s stomach. He stared at her, eyes wide, then asked, “What kind of emergency?”

            She blinked at him. “I’m not sure,” she replied. “But I understand he’s at the hospital now, with his son.”

            “The _hospital_?” echoed Scott disbelievingly, but before she could reply, he was already outside, returning to his motorcycle, heading out down the streets, beating down panic. Discarding his helmet, he ran into the hospital, heading towards the front desk. The woman there looked up and something sparked in her eyes, and she got to her feet, catching him before he reached her.

            “Scott,” said his mother benignly, taking hold of his arms, “you should be in school.”

            “Where’s Stiles?” he demanded. “Is he here?”

            “Yes,” she replied, “he is.”

            “Where?”

            She hesitated, and then she said, “Room one-eighteen. But, Scott, I didn’t call you specifically because I knew you’d do this. Just give him some time, go back to school, and you can see him afterwards.”

            “What happened?” he asked her, heading down the hall, peering at room numbers, his voice somewhere in between fear and resolution. “Is he OK?” Distressed, he continued, “I _knew_ he was sick-” but his mother spoke over him.

            “He’ll be fine,” she said reassuringly, still holding on to him as he moved, although she was nearly jogging to keep up. “He’ll probably be here for the night, you can see him after school.”

            “I want to see him _now_ ,” replied Scott.

            “You can’t,” said Melissa, her voice sympathetic, but firm. “You can’t right now, baby. I’m sorry.”

            “Why not?” he asked, coming to a stop, looking at her.

            She stopped, and then she glanced behind him. The glass paneling of the wall was uncovered by curtains, and sure enough, Stiles was on the bed there, in a hospital gown. His father sat beside him, holding his son; even from behind the glass, Scott could hear the Sheriff's soothing  _shhh_ s, and Stiles's desperate, hopeless crying, holding tightly to his father,  the moment of weakness so profound Scott had to look away.

            Melissa tugged her son away from the room. “Because he’s with his father,” she said gently. “Give him some time. Like I said, he’ll be here for the whole night, at least.” She watched her son, the anxiety in his eyes. “He’s going to need you here for him,” she murmured to him. “But just not yet. OK?”

            After a moment, Scott nodded tightly. “OK,” he said. “Yeah. OK, Mom.”

            He said nothing more, only reached out and embraced his mother, the sound of his best friend's sobs like crushed glass in his head.

            After about an hour or so, Melissa gave up trying to persuade her son to go back to school. Scott sat outside Stiles’s hospital room, arms crossed tightly, his expression an open and bleeding wound, perpetually moments away from breaking down into tears. His phone buzzed in his backpack by his feet, but he did not notice, all his senses focusing on the room behind him, listening in to the conversation. He did not move for hours, standing there like a statue, until finally the door to the room opened, and Scott snapped up, eyes wide. The Sheriff came out of the room accompanied by a doctor, who stopped and said, his voice low, “Well, a twenty-four hour watch is protocol, but he doesn’t seem to be a danger to himself. You’ll be able to take him home tomorrow morning.”

            “All right,” said the Sheriff, sounding tired. “Thank you, Doctor.”

            The doctor left. After a moment, Stiles’s father turned to look at Scott. Instantly, Scott asked, “Is he OK?”

            The Sheriff didn’t move. And then he shrugged, allowing a small sigh. “He’ll be fine,” he replied, looking back at the room. “You can go in and see him if you want.” He paused, then added, “He might talk to you.”

            Scott nodded, peering into the room, and then he slipped past Stiles’s father, heading into the room. “Hey,” he said, going to his friend’s bed, never taking his eyes off Stiles’s face. “Dude. What happened? Are you OK?”

            Stiles’s gaze was fixed on his hands before him, rubbing at his knuckles. He glanced up at Scott, and muttered, “Did they tell you?”

            The windows on the walls around them were wide open, visible from all sides. The Sheriff stood outside, talking on a cell phone, every now and then glancing back into the room. Standing beside the bed, his fists clenched and face pale, Scott said nothing at first, biting on his lip, and then he confessed, “Yeah. My mom did.”

            There was a silence.

            Then Scott reached out and took hold of Stiles’s arm firmly, almost tightly. “What happened?” he asked again, and his voice was even lower now, brow knit in fear. “If you need to… I mean… don’t you know you can always talk to-”

            “Oh, _come_ on, Scott,” snapped Stiles, annoyed, tearing his arm away from the other boy. “I didn’t O.D. on sleeping pills because I wanted to die, I did it because I wanted to go to _sleep_. And now I’m stuck under suicide watch for twenty-four hours, and my dad is…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “He doesn’t believe me,” he muttered, looking away from Scott, down at the bed.

            Scott didn’t know what to say for a moment, and then he asked tentatively, “Did it work, though? Did you get to sleep?”

            Stiles looked at him with an expression that answered that question quickly. “Well,” he began derisively, “I did pass out for an hour or so, before my dad found me unconscious in the bathroom, lying in a pool of my own vomit.”

            With a nod, Scott blinked. “So it didn’t really work.”

            Stiles rolled his eyes as scornfully as he possibly could, but he barely had the energy to respond with a witty comment. “No, Scott,” he said, exhaustion in his voice, “it was not the ideal outcome of events.” He paused, then shrugged, raising his eyebrows slightly. “But I guess if I’m _that_ tired, never waking up kind of would solve the problem, right?”

            “No,” replied Scott, aghast at the suggestion. “Dude, Stiles. How could you say that, after everything that's happened? Last year _you_ were the one talking  _me_ down, remember?" Stiles glanced up at his friend, the loving, earnest look in his eye. Glancing back at the window, Scott leaned in and said, “This is what we’ve been _saying_ , man. There’s this…darkness. And it’s getting to you. I mean, you just tried to _kill_ yourself-”

            “I did _not_ try to-”

            “But the point is,” continued Scott, his voice strained, “this thing. The way you can’t sleep. It’s connected to everything else, don’t try to tell me it’s not.”

            “But it _isn’t_ ,” insisted Stiles. “Scott, believe me, I know-”

            “How?” asked Scott. “How do you know, for sure?”

            There was a silence. Stiles watched his friend for a moment, then looked away, his expression hardening. Then, very quietly, his voice raw and hoarse, Stiles asked, “Have you ever heard of sleep paralysis?”

            “Sleep paralysis?” echoed Scott, taken aback. “No. Paralysis like – like the kanima’s venom?”

            “No,” said Stiles patiently. “And kind of yes. That’s what it feels like. But it’s like…” he trailed off, searching for words. “It’s like, you’re awake, but you can’t move. You can barely breathe. It feels like there’s literally something, or someone on your chest, so you can't even inhale. People used to think they were, like, demons or something.” He fell silent. He added, “You get hallucinations, sometimes.”

            “Wow,” said Scott, looking away from his friend, in genuine shock. “Like really intense nightmares?”

            “A little,” answered Stiles. “But the thing is, you’re awake. The whole time. And you can’t shake yourself out of it.”

            “OK,” said Scott, nodding. “But that still seems pretty supernatural. Maybe you’re, like, cursed or something”

            “No,” insisted Stiles, distress in his voice. “Scott. You don’t get it.”

            “What am I not getting?” asked Scott, pressing him. “You can’t sleep because you’re awake all night completely paralyzed, some kind of demon sitting on your freaking chest. That sounds pretty creepy and unbelievable to me!” Stiles shook his head, looking away from his friend, his lips pressed together tightly. He let out a loud breath through his nose, his face pale, his head shaking back and forth very slightly. After a moment, Scott relented. “Dude,” he said. “Talk to me. Please.”

            There was a long moment of silence. Stiles lowered his gaze, biting on his lips, blinking. With his heightened senses, when Scott peered at his friend, he could see the dewy drops of tears collecting on Stiles’s eyelashes.

            Again, Scott reached out and placed a calming hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Just tell me what’s going on,” he said. “I don’t care what it is, I don’t care if it has everything to do with freaky werewolf stuff, or nothing to do with it at all. Just tell me.”

            Stiles said nothing at first, but Scott waited, giving him time. And then, finally, his voice very quiet, Stiles mumbled, “Do you remember when my mom died, and I was…” he let out another loud breath, and self-consciously touched his hair, messing up his bangs. He clenched his jaw, and then continued lowly, “I got bad. Do you remember? It's the same thing. The panic attacks, not being able to sleep, the nightmares. I’m…” he shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together, as if he didn’t want to speak. “Hallucinations,” he said slowly, his words carefully measured, “were just another part of it. It’s been going on for _months_ , Scott, it just gets worse and worse. And it’s the same it was back then…this thing, that’s on my chest, making it hard to breathe, it’s not like this is new, Scott, it has nothing to do with your stupid werewolf haunting stuff because I got this same thing for a _long_ time after she…”

            He glanced at Scott, something like fear in his eyes.

            And then, unsteadily, he breathed, “It’s my mom.”

            Scott stared at him. Then, disbelievingly, he asked, “What?”

            “It’s my mom,” repeated Stiles, his voice breaking. “When I wake up and I can’t breathe, it’s because she’s there. Right there, holding me down. The way she looked the day she died. I still remember exactly what she was like, and she’s right there, every night, and I can’t breathe or do anything but stare at her.”

            Stiles wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his hospital gown. Scott only watched his friend, concern in his eyes. He asked, “Did you tell your dad?”

            “No,” retorted Stiles instantly. “God, no. Do you know what that would do to him?”

            “Maybe he could help,” said Scott pointedly. “Or get you whatever kind of help you need.”

            Again, Stiles shook his head. “You don’t get it, Scott.”

            “Fine! I don’t! Help me get it, man!”

            There was a silence. And then Stiles looked up, his eyes dry, and he said curtly, “My mom’s been dead for eight years now. It’s been eight years since I saw her outside a picture frame.” He hesitated and then, glancing away, he said, “I hate not being able to sleep. But I don’t hate seeing her.” He looked down at the bed before him, his hands in his lap. “I don’t want her to go.”

            Scott stared at his friend, unsure of what he could possibly say. He lifted his hand and held on to Stiles’s shoulder, unable to express anything in words. Stiles sniffed, wiping his eyes again, glancing up and around and taking a deep breath, desperate not to cry. He rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand and then, alarmed, Scott said, “Stiles!”

            He looked up at his friend questioningly. Scott reached out and took hold of Stiles’s hand, holding it up between them. Stiles’s eyes widened as he saw the thick, viscous blackness wiped across his skin, and Stiles tore his hand away, putting it back to his nose, as the darkness slid down his philtrum, dripping into his gaping mouth.

            It was dark that night. Allison had briefly joined Scott, visiting Stiles, but he seemed to be back to his regular sarcastic self, if just slightly touchier than usual. She wanted to stay the night with Scott, but she and her father had found the body on the Nemeton and he insisted she join him on patrol. Stiles and Scott and the strange symbol were all on her mind, but she held her bow, trekking along the wet ground. The sky was exceptionally clear, and the half-moon shone down on them. She moved with her father in silence, until she came upon a clearing, and she looked up at the burnt shell of a home where the Hales used to live.

            The moonlight shone down, casting the house in a silvery glow, as if it were made of mist and lengthening shadows. Squinting into the night, she stared at the boarded-up window of the second floor. A yellowish light flickered behind the wood.

            She glanced behind her. Her father was following a trail not far from her. Reaching down to finger the handgun tucked into her thigh holster – a gun she had, thankfully, not yet had the chance to draw in action – she headed into the clearing, going up the steps to the front door. It was stained an ugly, dark crimson, as if someone had splashed blood on the wooden paneling.

            Reaching out, she pushed, and the door swung open. There was no flickering firelight inside, but she stepped in anyway. The house seemed to tug at her, pulling her in.

            Slowly, she entered the room where Peter Hale had killed her aunt. The wood was dark and charred, but it seemed like there was something painted there in a deep, dark color. Beneath her feet, the floor creaked as she moved forward, brushing her fingers against the wall against which Kate’s blood had been spilt, where there was now a huge symbol, the same symbol Allison had seen carved into her mother’s forehead. Closer now, an odd, metallic scent reached her nostrils, thick and sharp, and she realized it was not drawn with red paint, but rather with blood.

            The memory overwhelmed her, and she shuddered. As always when she thought of her Kate, something roiled in her stomach, hate and disgust forever tainted by the deep love she had always had for her, before she knew the secrets of their family.

            Shaking her head to rid herself of the image of her aunt’s body and the searing thoughts at the corners of her mind, she turned around to leave the house again, and then froze.

            Not five feet before her, there was an animal. It had gray fur and golden eyes, and it watched her intelligently, as if it recognized her. She stood completely still, frozen to the spot by its unnatural gaze. The wolf cocked its head, eyes never shifting away from her.

            And then, from nowhere, the sounds of huge paws padding against the floor: Allison glanced around, jerking her gaze away from the wolf which continued to stare at her, to see more animals advancing, coming out of the shadows, haunches raised, eyes wide. They bared their teeth, growling at her, moving sleekly back and forth behind the first wolf, who made no sound and did not move. Cautiously, very slowly trailing her hand down her leg to the holster on her thigh, Allison raised her voice and called, “ _Dad_ ,” but she did not think he could hear her.

            Her hand reached the holster, and her fingers curled around the butt of the gun. At that exact instant, with a great howling roar, the wolves propelled towards her, thronging forward past the first wolf, smaller than all the others, and they dug their strong jaws into Allison’s body, her arms and legs; she pulled the gun and, her heart racing, pain tearing through her, she shot at their faces and necks and chest, but they did not seem to notice. Her body and the dusty wooden floor beneath her was slick with blood, and they tore her down to the ground, their paws thick and heavy on her chest. She coughed, and blood spurted from her mouth and from the open wound at her throat, and she could feel their snouts and teeth on the inside of her body, digging around in her innards, and she did not scream but, finally, her eyes filled with tears, trickling down her face, clearing tracks through the blood, and the last thought that ran through her head before she closed her eyes was a name. _Scott_ …

            Suddenly, the wolves on top of her were gone. Hot blood coating her body evaporated, leaving a cool sensation along her skin. Rolling to her side, she retched onto the floor, and then wiped her mouth and looked up with heavy, hooded eyes.

            The wolf with golden eyes was still there, staring at her perceptively. A warm, dry breeze swept through the room, bringing with it a horrific stench, like bubbling, blistering flesh, and Allison gagged, doubled over, closing her eyes against the sudden stinging smoke. Squinting, she looked up again, the heat of the fire filling the home; although her vision was blurry, she saw that the wolf before her was no longer there, replaced by a tall woman with dark hair. Blindly, she reached out, taking a step forward. “Kate?” she whispered, coughing against the smoke. “Kate?”

            There was a banging by the front door and everything instantly disappeared as Allison’s father came running into the house, into the room, and Allison’s knees gave out and he caught her as she fell, but she struggled against him, pushing him away, regaining her balance, sweeping her hair back. “Allison,” he said, the crease in his brow betraying his worry, “I heard gunshots.”

            “Yeah,” she breathed, replacing the gun in her holster, glancing at him. “That was me.”

            “What happened?” he asked. Allison saw how acutely he did not face the wall behind him, but her eyes wandered there, past his face. There was no symbol drawn on the dark, charred wood paneling. “Was it the new pack?”

            “No,” she said, shaking her head, staring around them. Her gaze stopped on the floor, and she knelt down, trailing her fingers along the dust. Staring down at the floor, she murmured, “Not a new pack, I don’t think.”

            There were four large paw prints there, wider than her palm, the marks crusted with earth and mud and, it seemed, stained with blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I split this chapter in two, so it went from almost 9000 words to about 4700 and 4300. They feel kind of short to me, but believe me when I say the story's starting to really pick up :) expect some answers - and possibly the Name of the creature causing this - next chapter.


	8. Ala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing that's haunting them has a name. The Hales and Argents find their connection runs far deeper than they knew.

Ala

Ala is the Earth Mother Goddess; female Alusi (deity) of the earth, morality, death, and fertility in Odinani. She is the most important Alusi in the Igbo pantheon. The Igbo people of Nigeria call Her the mother of all things, but She is both the fertile earth and the empty field after the harvest. She is present at the beginning of the cycle of life, making children grow in their mother’s womb, and She is there at the end of the cycle, to receive the souls of the dead into Her own womb.

[x.](http://journeyingtothegoddess.wordpress.com/2012/03/14/goddess-ala/)

 

            The sun was rapidly sinking below the horizon when the three of them sat in Allison’s car. She and Scott were in the front, both turned around, watching Stiles in the back. “Are you sure you’re OK?” asked Allison concernedly, watching him.

            Scott held out a water bottle. “Maybe you should have another drink of water.”

            “No,” snapped Stiles, glaring at them. “Oh my God, I’m not five years old.”

            “You just got out of the hospital, Stiles,” stressed Scott. “If you want to take a night off-”

            Stiles shook his head firmly. “I already missed two days of school,” he said, “and, let’s be honest, twenty-four hours without me? You’re lucky you’re not _dead_ , Scott.”

            Scott grinned at him, glancing at Allison. “He’s fine,” he said.

            As they got out, exiting into the cold nighttime air of the parking lot, another car turned in, slitting through the night, coming to a halt far too close to Allison’s car. The passenger’s side opened and Cora stepped out of the car, her eyes focused only on Stiles, just sliding out of Allison’s car. “Hey,” she said, her voice low. “What happened to you? Where were you today?”

            “Oh, yeah,” he muttered, and even in the darkness, those with heightened senses could see the blush rise to his cheek. “I was, uh,” he glanced at Scott, “sick.”

            She watched him, nodding. A hand flickered out somewhat unconsciously, fingers brushing against his elbow, as if about to take his arm. And then she seemed to become aware that they weren’t alone, and she pulled away quickly, pressing her hands to her sides, glancing over across the top of the car at her brother, who said nothing, only watched her innocently. Looking up to Scott, Cora asked, “You said you found something?”

            “Yes,” replied Allison. “That symbol. I think it means a lot more than you think it does.”

            Derek narrowed his eyes at the girl, but Cora nodded and asked, “So we’re here because…?”

            “Because,” responded Scott, “we were hoping your emissary would know more about your family than you do.” With a lingering glance, Scott tore his gaze away and headed towards the veterinary clinic. Derek and Cora exchanged glances.

            Deaton let them inside, and, glancing behind them all, carefully closed the small gate built from mountain ash. “What are you doing?” asked Cora, watching him. Her dark eyes flickered up to his face distrustfully. “Don’t try to trap us in here.”

            “I’m not,” he replied calmly. “A member of the other pack was attacked and killed. If they suspect any of you are responsible, sometime when you’re all together – like now – would be an ideal time to corner you all.”

            Cora stared at him, then glanced down at the line, her face pale. Stiles moved forward. “Hey,” he said, “don’t worry about it. Half of us here are regular humans, remember?” He looked at her, then down at the hinged gate in the counter. “If you need to get out,” he said, “then it’s super easy. See?” He opened the gate, holding it open and standing aside, as if to allow her to walk by. “Nobody’s trapped,” he said earnestly.

            She watched him for a moment, then looked back up at Deaton and nodded. Stiles carefully closed the gate again, making sure it latched, and they went into the back.

            Allison placed a photocopied paper onto the center of the steel examination table and said, “Something’s happening to all of us, like – hallucinations. Like we’re being haunted. And it all seems to come back down to this symbol.” Deaton took the paper, inspecting it thoughtfully. “I just saw it,” she continued, glancing over at Cora and Derek, “in their old house. Along with about a dozen wolves.”

            “You saw actual wolves?” asked Derek derisively, and Cora glanced back at him and said, “ _Derek_ ,” emphatically. He fell silent, brooding, his eyes still focused on Allison.

            She looked up at him with an expression of distaste tugging at the corners of her lips. “They were not physically there, no,” she said. “But I still saw them. And whatever’s happening – it’s getting to us through our heads, in our minds.” Begrudgingly - addressing, it seemed, Derek - she finished, “Just because they weren’t actually there doesn’t mean any of this isn’t real.”

            “Actually,” said Stiles pointedly, yawning. “It kind of literally does? But I get what you mean.” Allison shot him a dirty look and he blinked at Scott, muttering, “What?”

            “Well,” said Deaton, holding up the paper to display the symbol to them all, “they’re not unconnected. While there are no natural wolves in California, the Hale line is known for their exceptional shape-shifting abilities.”

            “What does that mean?” asked Scott.

             Glancing at Scott, Deaton continued, “Talia – your mother,” he added, nodding towards Derek and Cora, “had the ability to shape-shift at will between a human form and that of a wolf. Usually this power was passed down between female Alphas.”

            “Hey,” said Stiles, leaning in. He nudged Scott. “Remember when we dug up Derek’s sister, and she was a wolf? Wasn’t she an Alpha too?”

            Derek growled, deep in his throat. Nodding his head slightly, Deaton said, “She was. I didn’t know Laura as an Alpha for very long, but presumably she would have the ability as well.”

            Although he said nothing, Derek’s eyes were glinting blue, baring his teeth. The rest of them looked at him expectantly, but he said nothing. Finally Cora – whom had been deliberately avoiding his gaze – sighed, “What is it, Derek?”

            “Laura could shift,” he said, the blue light in his eyes dying down. “But I bound her in that form when I buried her with the wolfsbane rope. If you two idiots hadn’t torn the spiral apart, she might still be buried there.”

            “Dude,” said Scott, “sorry. We thought you’d killed her.”

            “Where is she buried now?” asked Deaton, his dark eyes moving to Derek.

            “There’s a cemetery outside of town,” replied Derek. Glancing at Allison, he said, “The same place her aunt is buried. After all the trouble died down, I had Laura lain to rest there.” He paused, then added, “That’s how I found Isaac.”

            Thoughtfully, Deaton asked, “Did you bind her, again?”

            “I couldn’t,” replied Derek, shaking his head. “My family’s gone. There’s no reason to uphold those traditions anymore.”

            “Oh,” said Deaton, looking back at the page before him, “I have to disagree with you on that, Derek.”

            “She’s not, though,” said Scott.

            They all looked at him.

            “Buried,” he clarified. With a cautious glance to his best friend, he continued, “Stiles found it. Laura Hale’s grave was robbed. Her body is missing.”

            “Oh, yeah,” remarked Stiles, looking back at them vaguely.

            Skeptically, Allison asked, “Your sister’s grave was broken into…and you didn’t even know?”

            “Not like it’s the first time this has happened,” said Derek, shooting a menacing glance at Scott and Stiles.

            “We’ve had more important concerns lately,” added Cora icily.

            “In any case,” said Deaton, nodding wisely, placing the paper back down on the examination table, “that would make sense.”

            “Sense?” repeated Derek heatedly. “My sister’s body is missing, and that makes _sense_?”

            Deaton tapped the symbol before them. “If this is making an appearance,” he said, “then yes, Derek, it does.”

            Derek said nothing, staring at the other man. Cora glanced at her brother, then said, “We know this sign represents the Alpha line in our family. But it was never passed down to Laura.”

            “Oh, no,” said Deaton, his voice very light. “This symbol is much older than the tradition of tattooing it on the backs of your women, Cora.”

            “Right,” said Allison, nodding, her expression hard. She pointed to the caption beneath the photocopied image. “This book traces it back to the fourteen hundreds, back to _la Bête du Gévaudan_ , which was the first werewolf that my family killed.”

            “True enough,” replied Deaton, nodding. “The Argents have been hunting the Hales for a long time.” To Allison, he continued, “Over the years, your family came to adopt the organizational structure of the clan you hunted. Which is the reason why you both,” he glanced back to Cora meaningfully, “follow matrilineal leadership.” Looking up to Derek, he added, apologetically, “For the most part.”

            Scott looked across, at Derek. “Did you know that?” he asked. Derek met his gaze for a moment, then shook his head.

            “I’m not surprised,” sighed Deaton. “The Hale family used to be much larger, but you’ve slowly been hunted to near extinction. As I understand, the Argents had eliminated most of them by the time they came to the New World.”

            “The New World?” echoed Stiles, sitting on one of the cabinets, behind the others, leaning his back against the wall. “You’re telling me that Allison’s family literally chased Derek and Cora’s family all the way across the Atlantic?”

            Without looking up, Deaton replied absent-mindedly. “Yes. In the late 1700s, I believe.” He cleared his throat, straightening up, turning the symbol around to show it to all of them. “But,” he continued, scanning across all of their faces, “there is an ancient, pagan meaning, one older than the Hale line itself.”

            Slowly, deliberately, he pointed to the sign. “It’s called a triquetra,” he said. Tracing his finger around its edges, he continued, “The three points represent the Triple Goddess.” He pointed to one tapered edge. “The mother, or the wife,” he moved his finger to the next, “the crone,” and the third and final point, “and the maiden. Together,” he said, tracing around the circle in the center of the circle, “they stand for an ancient set of sisters, who are collectively called,” he glanced up, meeting Cora’s gaze, “…the Morrigan.”

            “Morrigan?” echoed Stiles, arms folded over his chest. “Like the Irish goddess?”

            “Yes,” replied Deaton, nodding. He slid the paper over to Cora, who looked down at it, then up at him with deep, confused eyes. “This symbol,” he began lowly, “is a mark of inheritance when tattooed on bodies.” He looked at Allison. “It’s a claim, when found on the land.” He looked down at the sign. “When it begins to manifest on its own,” he said, his voice quieter now, “…then it becomes a harbinger of death.”

            “Whose death?” asked Cora, pressing forward.

            “I couldn’t tell you,” responded Deaton. “But there’s something coming. I’ve felt it for a long time now.”

            “What's coming?” demanded Cora. “Is it Grace’s pack?”

            Shaking his head, Deaton said, “Grace doesn’t have the kind of power to summon the Morrigan, not on her own.” He paused, then added, “But if there were any town ripe for a summoning, it would be Beacon Hills.”

            “Why’s that?” asked Allison.

            His eyes slid over to her. “Do you know how many corpses of creatures that should have been indestructible litter these woods?” he asked, his voice soft. “Many years ago, the Hale line used to be a great force, but now it’s little more than a broken house and her few remaining pups.” Cora shifted slightly at this, but Stiles saw the way Derek reached out, gently resting a hand on her shoulder. Deaton continued, “The Morrigan takes many shapes but, reliably, she can found…” he glanced up at them, “…in the context of the dead.”

            “The dead?” echoed Scott, his brow furrowed hard in thought. “Like how we’ve all been seeing people who’ve died.”

            “But what does that _mean?_ ” insisted Cora. “Does that mean – can people who are dead come back to life? Is that what you’re talking about?”

            “Not necessarily,” replied Deaton. Allison watched Cora, and narrowed her eyes slightly when she saw the spark of fear in the other girl’s gaze. “Usually, the Morrigan would take her power _from_ the dead, not restore it unto them.”

            No one was watching her except for Allison, but Cora let out what looked like a silent sigh of relief, and Allison did not move her gaze.

            “Right,” chimed in Stiles, still sitting against the wall. “Like how, in the legends, she’d show up on the battlefield after it was over.”

            “Exactly,” said Deaton, nodding. He looked up, past the others, and said, “You’re shaping up to be quite the emissary, Stiles.”

            Stiles blinked. Scott turned around to look at him, then looked back at Deaton, puzzled. “Emissary?” he asked, sounding perplexed.

            Wide-eyed, Deaton looked up at him. “Of course,” he said. “Every pack needs one.”

            “Hold on,” said Stiles, hopping off the drawers, scooting in between Scott and Allison, leaning forward. “But I didn’t go through any freaky supernatural druid training-”

            Shaking his head, Deaton told him, “You support a pack. You act as an advisor, and protect their interests. You have dedicated your life to this, ever since Scott was bitten.” He smiled. “You’re an emissary.”

            It was, Scott thought, one of the few times he had seen his best friend speechless. Stiles said nothing for a second, and then he said, “OK. If you say so,” and retreated.

            “I don’t understand,” pressed Cora. “This – Morrigan. Whatever it is. Can it hurt us?”

            “You?” asked Deaton. He considered this, then answered: “I doubt it. As Stiles aptly pointed out, the Morrigan comes to feast on the dead after a battle.” He watched her, then explained: “She feeds on soldiers, not leaders. On sons, not daughters.”

            There was a pause, and then Cora stood up straight, pulling away from Deaton. Unable to restrain herself, she cast a glance at her brother, who only stared at the man before them stoically.

            “That’s enough,” said Cora, something in her voice almost tired. “We know what it is. Now we just need to figure out how to fight it.”

            It wasn’t much later that Cora was in the midst of the forest, the light of the stars and the moon unable to pierce through the thick canopy above her, silently treading on the dark, organic soil underfoot. Back at home, Derek had had that look in his eye, that mixture of fear and alarm and wariness that would usually prevent her from leaving him. But the power she had over him – the strength of her word, the way he wouldn’t quite meet her gaze with those big eyes, when she spoke to him like that – it was intoxicating. The authority she held over him, her Beta, thrilled her.

            So there she was in the woods, alone. The symbol felt burned behind her eyelids, the name turning over and over and over again in her mouth. She tasted it, felt it slide across her tongue, dripping from her teeth, rolling off her lips. Morrigan. The Morrigan.

            She looked up, her eyes glowing through the fog of the late night, red rings in a cloudy white darkness. In the distance, she saw the color of her eyes reflected back at her.

            Breathing in deeply, her search for a scent lasted only a second before she coughed and gagged, the sweet stink of rotting flesh inundating her nostrils. Holding a hand tightly over her face, she stumbled forward.

            The moonlight found its way between the trees, illuminating the face behind the fog. Red eyes spread into a face, and long hair, a body wrapped in a shroud, and bare feet.

            Cora’s slow movement forward quickened, and she broke into a stride, her breath coming in short, disbelieving bursts. The red melted away from her eyes, and she felt wholly and exceptionally human as she stood mere feet away from the thing and she whispered one word. “…Mom-?”

            With a thundering roar, a crackling, flickering fire consumed the body before her, shooting flames upwards and around her, blanketing the woman’s body, charring it back, so hot that skin blistered and bubbled on contact. Cora screamed and the image of her mother’s face, so serenely peaceful while the charred flesh was burnt right off bone, dug deep into her, into the part of her she no longer allowed herself to touch, and without thinking she launched herself towards the fire, feeling it bite at her arms as she tried to tear her mother from the flames, struggling with the body that would not stop burning, wide red eyes never closing, never moving from Cora’s face, although the moisture in them seemed to pop and shrivel.

            She threw her mother on the ground, lying on top of her, hands pressed against her mother’s face, those eyes never moving. The flames were hot and intense, licking at Cora's skin, breaking open old wounds, scars that had healed when she fled, whimpering, away from her burning home. Fear rose in her chest, rearing its head the same way it did that night, and her heart beat so fast she could hear it become like one constant, never-ending thrum, and she looked down at the face again with wild eyes, breath short in her smoke-filled lungs, and the eyes were still red but they no longer belonged to her mother.

            Cora screamed and pushed away, crawling away from the thing, the burnt, charred corpse staring back at her with her own eyes. Her chest pumping in air clouded by smoke and panic, she held onto herself tightly, slipping into animal instinct, red eyes pulsing beneath her eyelids. Just like after the fire, she could not think, she could not breathe. Everything that she was – everything that she had seen – became too intensely powerful, and she hugged her knees to her chest, feelings packed so tightly in with emotion and fear and despair and the burning, lingering feeling of fire that she was going to explode, she could not possibly hold it in…

            Allison approached a clearing, her bow raised. There were sounds of movement, like leaves crunching underfoot. She adjusted her fingers on the bow.

            Before her, a wolf stared at her with red eyes. It cocked her head at her.

            “No,” said whispered fiercely, returning the look with a gaze that dared the animal to move. “You don’t scare me. Not again.”

            She let loose an arrow, but a moment later there was no satisfying _thump_ as it collided with its target. It hovered in midair, a fist wrapped around the shaft.

            Where the wolf had been standing a split second before, Cora now knelt, completely naked, long hair slightly matted, eyes glowing red.

            “Oh my _God_ ,” muttered Allison, and she rushed forward, shedding her long coat, instantly reaching to wrap it around Cora’s shoulders. “Was that you?” she asked, although Cora didn’t even look at her, staring dully forward. “I mean, I know that was you, I just saw you turn from – oh my God, I didn’t know you could…” she trailed off. Then, gingerly, she asked, “Cora? Is everything OK?” The girl looked up at her vacantly. And then she shook her head, shivering in the night air. When she did not say anything more, Allison reached out, buttoning the front of the jacket. “I can take you home, if you want,” she said uncertainly. Nodding behind them, she added, “The car’s a little ways that way.”

            Cora didn’t say anything. Neither did Allison. And then, very quietly, Cora lifted her gaze to meet Allison’s, and she asked her faintly, “Have you ever used fire, Allison?”

            Allison blinked at her. “Used fire?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

            “The way your family did,” continued Cora, glancing down, not looking at Allison. “Have you ever burned anyone, Allison?”

            The girl with the bow was silent for a second. And then, firmly, she said, “No. I never have.”

            There was a silence between them.

            And then Allison leaned in and she said: “Cora. Our families have been at war for a very long time.” Cora didn’t reply. Allison lowered her face, as if to catch Cora’s eyes. “But you heard what Deaton said today. There’s a new war coming, and I don’t think we can afford to be enemies any longer.” She waited for Cora to respond, but the other girl did not move. “We can end this,” she said solemnly. “We have centuries of history behind us, but that doesn’t mean we have to repeat it.”

            Finally, Cora’s eyes flickered up to meet her own. Allison leaned in, resting her hand on the other girl’s shoulder, waiting for a reply.

            Quietly, irises burning red, Cora told her, “You only say that because your family won.”

            Allison said nothing, lips pressed tightly together. And then she took her hand away from Cora and turned around. “Come on,” she said. “Let me take you home. Your brother’s probably worried about you.”

            She began to walk away. Only a moment later, she heard footsteps behind her, and knew that Cora was following her.

            “You don’t have to like me,” she said over her shoulder, at Cora. “But there’s something going on here, and, somehow, it’s connected to your family. I’m not about to just let that go. Not after what it’s done to me and my friends.”

            “It hasn’t touched you,” said Cora scathingly, from behind her. “Look at you. You're not bleeding. You don't even have any scars.” She paused, waiting, knowing that would sink in Allison deeply. Lowly, she said, “If I had a human body, after what your family did to us - I'd be unrecognizable.”

            “You do have a human body,” replied Allison, glancing back at the werewolf. “You _are_ human, Cora. You may also be a werewolf, but that doesn’t take away your humanity. Scott showed me that.”

            Cora was silent. And then she said, “No. I was never _just_ human.”

            They continued on. After a few moments, Allison glanced around. They were nowhere near the car, but a chill breeze swept through the forest, shivering the leaves and raising the hair on Allison’s exposed skin, no longer protected by her warm coat.

            Abruptly, Cora said, “He loved her, you know.”

            Allison stopped. She turned around and looked back at Cora. “Who?” she asked, a crease in her brow.

            Cora looked at her with deep, dark eyes. “Your aunt. Kate. The one who killed me and what was left of my family.” She paused, then repeated: “Derek loved her.”

            “What?” asked Allison. “Derek didn’t even know her. He would’ve been just a teenager then.”

            There was something strange and animalistic in the way Cora did not move, her eyes shining in the darkness. “How do you think she knew when and where we all would be?” asked Cora, her voice hushed. “It was the Wolf Moon. How did she know that, Allison?”

            Allison stared at her.

            Bitterly, folding the collar of the coat up to protect the skin of her neck, Cora continued, “I knew. But I was so young, and he told me not to tell our mother, and I idolized him. He was my big brother.” She stopped. She stared at Allison. Then, softly, she said: “So I didn’t tell her.”

            They met one another’s gaze.

            And then, her gaze lifting, defiance written in the scowl on her face, Cora said, “I am the Alpha because I was always meant to be. If there’s a reason I survived the fire that killed my mother, my father, my cousins, my aunts and uncles – and there _must_ be a reason – then it’s this. Don’t forget that, Allison. You can talk about reconciliation all you want, but at the end of the day, I am the daughter of the Hales, and you are the daughter of the Argents, and all that history that’s led up to this moment still matters.”

            She stared at the other girl. Allison felt suddenly, profoundly small.

            “You won,” said Cora. “But there’s a new storm coming.”

            Neither of them said anything more. And then Allison glanced around them, into the trees. “Come on,” she said, turning around again. “You can prophesize all you want to your brother. I don’t have time for this.”

            She moved on and, once again, Cora followed her. After another few minutes, she stopped, glancing around.

            “That’s so weird,” she began. “I could’ve sworn the car was right here…”

            Cora whipped her head around suddenly. “Your bow,” she said, and Allison blinked uncomprehendingly. Impatiently, Cora glanced around at her and said, “Put it up!”

            “At what?”

            “There’s something,” responded Cora, lowering to a defensive crouch, gesturing at the woods before them. “Out there. Smells like blood. And…”

            “And?” asked Allison, nocking an arrow, holding up her bow.

            “I don’t know,” replied Cora, shaking her head. “But it stinks.” At first, neither of them moved, and then Cora slowly began to advance. When Allison hissed her name, she turned and whispered, “Whatever it is, I’m an Alpha, and you’re a girl with a bow and arrow. Cover me, but _trust me_ on this one.”

            After a moment, Allison let out a long breath and then nodded. Cora turned around again, slowly moving forward, stepping carefully between the trees. It wasn’t long until the forest broke into a clearing, and Cora narrowed her eyes at the sight. It was Allison who let out sound, somewhere in between a gasp of shock and a breathy, horrified, “ _Oh_ my God.” She dropped her bow to her side and shot past Cora, moving forward, standing at the base of the huge tree stump before them.

            A bloom of red on a pale white body, a long stick of holly driven straight through his heart, there was an old man pinned to the tree, eyes wide open, dead and unseeing, a thick black goo not yet dried as it trickled down his face.


	9. Ishtar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles, Lydia, and Cora visit the Nemeton.

Ishtar

 

 

“If thou openest not the gate to let me enter,  
I will break the door, I will wrench the lock,  
I will smash the door-posts, I will force the doors.  
I will bring up the dead to eat the living.  
And the dead will outnumber the living.”

“Listen to me while I tell the tale of your lovers.  
There was Tammuz, the lover of your youth,  
for him you decreed wailing, year after year.  
You loved the many-coloured Lilac-breasted Roller,  
but still you struck and broke his wing [...]  
You have loved the lion tremendous in strength:  
[...] You have loved the shepherd of the flock;  
he made meal-cake for you day after day,  
he killed kids for your sake.  
You struck and turned him into a wolf;  
now his own herd-boys chase him away,  
his own hounds worry his flanks.”

  
_Ishtar’s Descent; Epic of Gilgamesh_

[x.](http://journeyingtothegoddess.wordpress.com/2012/03/14/goddess-ala/) 

            Cora stood before her locker, staring glumly at the books. There was a photograph taped onto the inside, the only decoration there: a picture Derek had given her, from before the fire. No more than ten years old, she beamed up at the camera with a tooth missing in her mouth, a canine. On one side of her, leaning in towards he girls, a sixteen-year-old Derek grinned openly, a light in his eyes Cora hadn’t seen since she came back.  In the image, Cora sat on the lap of a beautiful young woman with long dark hair and the same broad, wolfish smile characteristic of her family. Cora did not look at the photograph. She had memorized its every line and curve and color in the time that she had been back.

            Someone appeared, leaning on the locker beside her. “Hey,” said Sam breathlessly. “The bell rang.”

            Sourly, Cora replied, “I heard it.”

            “Are you just going to stand here for the rest of the day, or…?”

            After a moment, Cora let out a small sigh, shifting her gaze to face Sam. “I don’t want to go home,” she admitted. When Sam raised a questioning eyebrow, Cora tried to explain, “My brother is… we’re not getting along all that well, right now.”

            Sam nodded wisely. Her eyes flitted past Cora’s head, and she nodded towards the picture. “Is that him?” she asked.

            Cora turned, looking at it. “Yes,” she replied, watching it bitterly. “But that’s from a long time ago.”

            While Cora watched the photo, Sam’s eyes flickered back to her friend’s face. “Who’s that girl?”

            “Her?” asked Cora, and then she looked around with, to Sam’s surprise, a small smile on her face. “That’s me,” she said.

            A glowing smile broke out on Sam’s face, mirroring Cora's expression. “Not _that_ girl,” she said. “I could tell that much. I mean the other girl.” She reached out, holding a finger before the picture, pointing at the woman who held Cora on her lap. “This one.”

            “That’s my older sister,” replied Cora.

            “Is she a lot older than you?”

            Cora didn’t answer immediately. And then she said: “She was.”

            “Oh,” said Sam, retracting her hand, as if she’d been burned. “I’m sorry.” She hesitated, then asked tentatively, “Was she in the fire?”

            Without looking back at the other girl, Cora stared at the face in the photograph. “No,” she replied. “But she was killed a few years ago.”

            A group of the last few straggling students passed them, laughing together. Sam leaned against the lockers, watching Cora’s face. “Do you miss her?” she asked.

            Closing the locker with a small breath, Cora replied, “I don’t know. I hardly remember her. We weren’t really – she wasn’t around, after the fire. Neither was I, really.”

            “Where were you?”

            Something clenched in Cora’s jaw, but despite Sam’s careful eye on her, she did not seem to notice. “Around,” she replied. “Not here.” She pulled one arm out of the strap of her backpack and unzipped it, tucking a book into it. While doing so, she continued, “It’s complicated. I was young when my family died-”

            “You weren’t _that_ young.”

            “Young enough that I don’t remember them all that well,” she said, shaking her head. “That connection to them, that memory that won’t let you go – Derek has that. I don’t.”

            “What does that mean?” asked Sam dubiously. “You don’t feel connected to your family anymore?”

            “Yeah, I do, I guess,” replied Cora, threading her other arm through the strap of her backpack, pulling it on again. “But it’s – as history." Nodding back to her locker, she said, "Like in pictures. Not in real life. As for that deep bond, that thing you’re supposed to feel with your family? I don’t know. I don’t get that.”

            They headed towards the doors of the school. Sam held a binder close to her chest, watching the floor before them. “I don’t know,” she said fairly. “I mean, I…hate my parents. I’m glad they’re gone, that house was – never a home for me.” She paused, glancing up at Cora. “But even I can’t erase that feeling of something there. Almost like I owe them something.”

            Cora shrugged. “Is that because they were your family?” she asked. “Or is that because of the way they treated you?”

            At this, Sam seemed viscerally taken aback. “Everybody has that connection to their family, Cora,” she said shortly, and her voice was stronger than Cora had ever heard it. “I was a victim then, but there’s something to be said in doing what you’re told. In following orders. Everybody has a commitment to their family. Even I know that.”

            She broke off suddenly, blinking. Cora stopped walking, staring at her, frowning faintly.

            Sam brushed her short hair back. “Sorry,” she murmured, glancing around. “I just think…maybe you’re underestimating your relationship with your sister.”

            At this, Cora looked around, then shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “But she’s dead. So it doesn’t really matter either way.”

            With an odd, sighing breath, Sam ran her hands through her hair. “I should go,” she said. “I’ll see you around, Cora.”

            “OK,” said Cora, slightly confused. “See you tomorrow.”

            Sam didn’t even look at her, and then headed off down the sidewalk, the way she normally walked home. Cora stared at her receding back for a moment, until a car pulled up in the parking lot just before her, and Stiles appeared, sticking his head out of the back window.

            “Yo!” he called, waving at her. “Get in loser, we’re going shopping.”

            In the front seat, Lydia rolled her eyes. Cora raised an eyebrow at them, then moved forward. Addressing Stiles, she began, “Derek usually picks me up-”

            “Yeah, I texted him,” said Stiles, waving his phone. “This is more important. Get in, we’re kidnapping you.”

            Cora looked to Lydia, who nodded towards the seat beside her. Crossing around the car and getting in the passenger’s seat, Cora buckled herself in and turned around, asking, “Where’s your car?”

            Cheerily, Stiles shrugged and replied, “I’m not allowed to drive myself for a while. Still _technically_ on suicide watch, I guess.”

            Alarmed, Cora began, “Suicide watch-?” but he waved his hand nonchalantly, speaking over her.

            “Nah, don’t worry about it. Long story. Anyway, Scallison are busy doing their cutesy romance-y thing today, but fortunately I have my back-up plan.”

            He patted Lydia’s shoulder affectionately and she asked, disdainfully, “Scallison?”

            “Yeah,” he said seriously. “Like Brangelina?”

            “Hold on,” said Cora, as Lydia drove out of the parking lot, “why are we going shopping?”

            Lydia glanced at her pitifully and Stiles began, uncertainly, “Cora, no, we’re not literally… That’s OK, we’ll get you up-to-speed on pop culture references after all this blows over.”

            “Stiles,” said Lydia, “I’m just going to take you home.”

            “No, no, no, no, no!” protested Stiles. “Come on! This is important stuff here!”

            “I have a test tomorrow!”

            “Yeah, in _calculus_ ,” said Stiles, rolling his eyes. “Lydia, you taught yourself calculus in ninth grade.” She considered this for a moment, pursing her lips. He added, “And I’m sure you’re pretty sick of seeing dead people everywhere, too. The sooner we figure out what’s going on, the less you’ll have to go all _Sixth Sense_ all the time.”

            After a few moments, she let out a defeated breath and said, “Fine.” Stiles grinned triumphantly, and she added, “But _only_ because you’d do it anyway, and there should be at least one sane person running around chasing after ghosts.”

            “Hey, that’s offensive,” replied Stiles, leaning forward, in between the two girls. “Cora’s totally sane.”

            “Where are we going?” asked Cora, and Lydia opened her mouth to reply, but Stiles spoke first.

            “Exploring,” he said, and he was, Cora thought, far more excited than he should have been, given the circumstances. “Maybe we’ll find the third sacrifice on the Nemeton, huh?”

            “Sacrifice?” echoed Cora, frowning, glancing to Lydia.

            “What, are you kidding?” asked Stiles, leaning forward again, slipping the top strap of the seatbelt off of his neck. “Two bodies with a mistletoe spear through their hearts, laid out on the Nemeton, and you’re _not_ thinking sacrifices?”

            With a slow shrug, Cora said, “I don’t know about the member of Grace’s pack, but from what Derek tells me, there are a lot of people who might want to get rid of Gerard Argent.”

            “Well, yeah,” responded Stiles fairly. “Let’s be real, we kind of all wanted him dead, he was a total creep. But no, the way they were killed was way too specific for just a regular old revenge-murder. I’m totally calling sacrifices.”

            “Oh, _God_ ,” said Lydia, her lip curled in a grimace. “Don’t tell me Miss Blake is back.”

            “Nah, don’t worry about that,” replied Stiles, shaking his head reassuringly. “Now that she’s dead, all the sacrifices she was doing, whatever spell she was casting – I think it got reset. I bet this is something else entirely. Remember what Deaton said about the Morrigan? She gets her power from the dead. Like, from sacrifices.” He reached out, pointing at the windshield. “Turn here, turn here.”

            “In the middle of the _trees?_ ”

            “Yeah,” said Stiles, nodding, peering out. “Down to the Hale house.” Cora’s eyes flashed slightly, but she said nothing. “Here’s good.” Lydia stopped the car, and Stiles got out quickly, slamming the door shut behind him, opening Lydia’s door for her and bowing his head slightly. She rolled her eyes but got out anyway; when he glanced over and saw Cora getting out, he said, “Wait, wait, wait, wait!” and crossed the car and took the door, already half open, and held it open for her.

            “Thanks,” she said, deliberately fighting the smile tugging at her lips. She met his gaze for a moment, and they didn’t look away immediately, and then Lydia cleared her throat from the other side of the car.

            Blinking, Stiles looked around, then muttered, “Oh, right,” and crossed around the car again, closing Lydia’s door for her. Lydia thanked him curtly, adjusting the gloves on her hands. “Can you walk OK in those?” asked Stiles, glancing down to her tall heels. He said, “Here, let me help,” and reached out to touch her elbow, supporting her, but she shook him off contemptuously.

            “I’m fine,” she sniffed. Nodding at the house, she said, “But if you’re going in there, I am _not_ coming with you. Last time I was there, I ended up bringing somebody back from the dead.”

            “Yeah,” said Stiles, with an awkward laugh. “Oops. Nah, we’re heading out to the Nemeton, see what we can find there.”

            Cora raised an eyebrow at him, across the top of the car. “You know where it is?” she asked him.

            “Well,” began Stiles, his gaze jerking over to her, “in theory. I guess. But-”

            She cut him off. “You can never find it when you want to,” said Cora shrewdly. “Yeah. That’s how it works.”

            “You’re the werewolf,” he retorted. “You should be able to find it.”

            “How would I-?”

            “The tree,” said Lydia suddenly, interrupting them both. “The Nemeton is the big tree. Right?”

            A breeze stirred the leaves on the ground, whipped through Cora’s hair. She tucked it behind her ears, watching Lydia with eyes slightly narrowed. Holding her gloved hands, Lydia looked far away, eyes staring indistinctly into the distance. “Um,” said Stiles, glancing in between the two girls, “yeah. Can you-”

            “It’s this way,” said Lydia, striding forward, into the trees. Stiles’s eyebrows shot upwards in surprise, and he hurried to follow her, Cora cautiously following.

            “How can you tell?” asked Cora lowly, behind them.

            “Wait, wait, wait,” said Stiles, trekking beside Lydia, watching her; he tripped on a root and almost fell, but quickly recovered, glancing back at Cora self-consciously. “Miss Blake called you a banshee. Didn’t she? You think that has something to do with this?”

            “I don’t know, Stiles,” said Lydia impatiently. “Sometimes…I know things. Mostly about dead people. I don’t know why, I just do.”

            “Banshee?” echoed Cora, speeding up, slipping between Lydia and Stiles. There was an odd mixture of concern and confusion in her eyes. “The Darach called you a banshee?”

            Indignantly, Lydia nodded. “She seemed surprised,” she said. “But I have no idea why. I don’t even know what that means.”

            A crease in her brow, Cora moved along with them, lost in thought. Then she asked, “Did Derek bite you?”

            “No,” replied Lydia coolly.

            “Peter did,” offered Stiles helpfully.

            Lydia finally glanced over at Cora, noticing the look on her face. “What?” she asked. “I scream a lot,” she sighed, sweeping her hair back, “if that explains anything.”

            “What?” asked Cora, then she shook her head. “No,” she continued, “it’s just that I’ve never met one. My sister told me about them, but-”

            “Obviously,” snorted Stiles, moving ahead of them eagerly, balancing on top of a thick root on the ground. “Of _course_ your sister told you about this crazy mythological BS. Jeez, I’d love to have been there for a Hale family reunion, wow.”

            “Would you?” Cora asked, her voice suddenly sharp. “Because my family has a pretty bad track record when it comes to surviving those, to be honest.”

            Awkwardly, Stiles whipped around, looking at her with an expression on his face that showed he knew how profoundly he shouldn’t have said that. After a moment, he turned around and mumbled, “Sorry,” and began to walk again, then promptly tripped, falling face-first.

            As he sprang up, assuring them he was fine, dusting the earth off of his pants, Cora turned back to Lydia. “A banshee has nothing to do with screaming,” she told her. “It means like – ghost. In-between. It’s when the bite doesn’t take, but it doesn’t kill you either. So you’re not quite human anymore, but you’re also not a werewolf.”

            “I’m not human?” echoed Lydia, appalled. “What does that mean?”

            “It means,” replied Cora, “it’ll be like – you’ll always have your finger on the pulse of the supernatural, whatever happens. And since Beacon Hills is prone to a lot more of that than most places, your sense of things like that is probably heightened here. That’s why we’re all so tuned in to the sound of your voice, too. It’s – I don’t know how to explain it, but when you scream, it’s more like a howl.”

            “Why does that happen?” asked Stiles, walking backwards, facing them but glancing at the ground behind him every few seconds. “I mean, Jackson turned into a kanima and not a wolf because he was a total asshole.” Lydia shot him an angry look and he added, “Sorry, but that’s _literally_ why. So why did you get a banshee and not a wolf? Because you’re smart?”

            “No,” said Cora, and then she glanced at Lydia and said, “Not that – I don’t know if you’re smart, I guess, but – anyway, no.” She tucked her hair behind her ears again, her breaths puffing white in the cold air, and continued, “A new wolf will always be a Beta, and once you’ve been bitten, that distinction is very clear. But for humans, the line between an Alpha and a Beta isn’t so obvious. So sometimes, when a human’s been bitten, and their inherent nature is so strong that it can’t fit into the role of a Beta…” she trailed off, and shrugged. “It won’t even take.”

            “Hold on,” said Stiles suspiciously. “Scott’s the one who’s a _True_ Alpha. If he was so powerful, why didn’t that happen to him?”

            “First of all,” she began pointedly, “I don’t believe in True Alphas. I think they’re a bedtime story our mom told us, and the reality is that Derek was such a bad Alpha that Scott easily eclipsed him.” When Stiles began to protest, leaping to the defensive of his friend, Cora continued, “ _But_. A True Alpha is said to rise from Beta. A banshee, on the other hand, can’t be turned into a Beta to begin with.”

            Something like pride glowing on her face, Lydia let out a satisfied little, “ _Hmph_. I knew it was something like that.”

            “No, you didn’t,” said Stiles, turning back around, rolling his eyes.

            Cora looked at her, then back to the ground. “It’s a sign of huge power. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’ve heard that if they’re strong enough, a banshee can link humans and werewolves, acting like an in-between, connecting them, balancing their power.”

            “Like a druid?” asked Stiles.

            “No,” said Cora, shaking her head. “Druids are humans. Banshees are as strong as werewolves, except instead of physical strength, it’s more of a…” she trailed off, searching for words; almost apologetically, she finished, “…psychic thing.”

            None of them said anything for a moment, and then Lydia, said, “So I _am_ a psychic.”

            “In a very specific sense,” replied Cora, with a shrug, “I guess.”

            “Well, gee,” said Stiles, without looking back at them. “It would’ve been nice if Derek had told us some of this before.”

            “He probably doesn’t know,” said Cora, as they continued through the forest. “Why would he? He wasn’t meant to be Alpha. Hale sons don’t always even stay in the pack. As far as I knew, he planned on having a pretty human life, settling down with a nice human girl, having nice human kids. That’s all he wanted.”

            “Man,” said Stiles, sounding impressed, “he really screwed up on the _nice human girl_ part, huh? Like. Over and over again.”

            “How do _you_ know all this?” asked Lydia, her eyes slightly narrowed. “Were they all bedtime stories from your mother?”

            Cora shook her head, shoving her hands in her pockets. Her gaze flickered down to the ground, watching where she planted her feet. “My sister taught me,” she said, her voice lower now. “She was in training to rise to Alpha after our mother. While our mom was busy leading the pack, Laura would always make time to tell me about what she was learning.”

            There was silence, except for the ubiquitous buzzing of the forest around them. A crow cawed above them, and then Cora glanced up, surprised, as Lydia reached out and tucked her arm around Cora’s, smiling at her. “I have a question,” said Stiles, still ahead of them.

            “No,” answered Lydia immediately.

            Stiles stopped, and looked back at her. “You don’t even know what-”

            “It doesn’t matter,” said Lydia shortly. The two girls kept moving, passing Stiles, stepping right by him. As he looked her in the eye, she repeated simply: “No.”

            “OK but,” continued Stiles, following them, almost tripping again, then continuing right behind Cora, “seriously, though. For real.” He paused, his breath coming in labored spurts from scurrying behind them. “Your sister’s name was Laura?”

            With a curious look at him behind her, Cora replied: “Yes.”

            “So,” he continued, following them, his face deadpan, “did you have two other sisters named Nora and Dora?”

            For a second, Cora just watched him, and then her eyes narrowed just slightly, as if she were concentrating very hard. Lydia did not stop walking; if anything, she sped up. “Did you hear something, Cora?” she asked, looking over at the other girl. Before Cora could respond, she continued, “No. Probably just some stupid bug.”

            And then, Cora stopped, and she pulled her arm out of Lydia’s, turning around to look at Stiles. For a second, his little grin faltered, and the look on her face sent a chill of fear down his spine. Just before he began to mumble out an apology, she said: “We had an Aunt Dora.”

            Stiles blinked at her. “What?”

            “An aunt,” she repeated, and a smile tugged at her lips, easy and honest. “Her name was Pandora.  Laura always joked I was named after her.”

            Thoroughly taken aback that his joke had some merit, he began, “Huh. Who knew.”

            “And pretty much nobody but Derek ever called me _just_ Cora,” she continued, turning around and taking Lydia’s arm again. “Everyone else called me by my first and middle name. So no, the rhyming is not on purpose.”

            “What’s your middle name?” asked Lydia.

            “Lynn,” replied Cora, as they continued on, deeper into the forest.

            Lydia looked before her, tasting the name in her mouth. “Cora Lynn,” she said. “That’s…surprisingly endearing.”

            “Yeah,” breathed Stiles. “No kidding.”

            He began to say something else, and then Lydia stopped abruptly, mid-afternoon sunlight flooding down on them in the sudden clearing. Stiles stood beside Cora, and they all stared ahead of them, at the giant tree stump, before them like some great monument. An odd thrumming filled the air, the feeling of shifting, molting life. It was Cora who finally broke the silence, raising a hand to cover her face. “Do you smell that?” she asked, revolted.

            Making a face, Lydia pinched her nose, and Stiles sniffed the air and then said, “Actually, yeah. Wow. That’s gross.”

            “ _Urgh_ ,” groaned Lydia. “What _is_ that?”

            “I don’t know,” said Stiles, and then he moved forward. “But I’m gonna find out.”

            “Stiles, no-!” but he slipped out of Cora’s reach, and Lydia held her back, refusing to move any closer to the thing. He examined the base of the tree, then slowly moved around, searching for something. “This is so weird,” he called. “Last year, this thing was destroyed. Caved in completely.”

            “Well,” said Lydia, as if this were obvious, “it _is_ magic, isn’t it?”

            “Yeah, I guess,” replied Stiles, then he straightened up, looking back at them. “That reminds me,” he said. “Here’s something I don’t understand.” He kept moving, searching for the entrance to the abandoned cellar infested with the ancient roots of the tree. “Sacrificing to the Nemeton doesn’t do anything on its own, right? There has to be a druid around to focus or harness the power, like what Miss Blake was doing. And Deaton said that the Morrigan was manifesting on its own, like a bad omen, but he _also_ said that someone was summoning her.” He paused, looking up at them.

            When he did not continue, Cora replied, “I don’t understand. What’s your question?”

            “My _question_ is,” he continued, allowing a dramatic pause for emphasis, “who’s trying to summon the Morrigan? And what is she going to do, once she gets here?”

            “Isn’t there another pack?” asked Lydia peevishly. “Aren’t they doing it? They showed up right when all this started happening, there’s no way it’s not related.”

            Stiles ducked down, then called, “A-ha. Found it.” He disappeared, slipping down underground.

            Cora called his name, and he didn’t reply. For a second she looked helplessly back at Lydia, and then Lydia said, “Uh-uh. No way. I am not going down there.”

            With a sigh, Cora pried her arm away from Lydia. “Stay right here,” she said. “I just need to make sure he doesn’t die.” She headed over to where Stiles had been, all but holding her breath against the stink. As she crawled into the small opening, the smell intensified. “Stiles!” she called. “Are you there?”

            His voice came back to her, reverberating in the space. “Yeah,” he called, “I’m here.”

            She moved forward. As soon as she got to the open cellar, she put a hand to her mouth, then turned and vomited onto the ground beside her, emptying her stomach, retching onto the dusty floor. Gasping for breath, she pressed her sleeve to her face, eyes watering, barely able to breathe. Through hazy vision, she could see Stiles standing at the base of the tree, where the roots climbed down the low wall. He stared at something on the floor below him, but Cora could not see what it was. “What is it?” she croaked, trying to blink focus back into her eyes.

            He turned, looking at her over one shoulder. And then he strode across the cramped room, holding his arms out. “Cora,” he said, and there was an uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice. “Go back up. Just go back up to Lydia.”

            “What?” she asked, confused. “Is there something down here?” The smell washed over her once more, and she began to feel dizzy with the intensity. “Oh, _God_ ,” she said, disgusted. “It smells like-”

            She broke off suddenly, her eyes widening, staring at Stiles. “Cora,” he said firmly, “no. Please. Listen to me, you don’t want to see-”

            Tearing past him, shooting across the room, Cora stopped before the tangle of roots and vines. She stared down at what lay before her, and then, very slowly, she fell to her knees.

            “Cora,” whispered Stiles, kneeling beside her, reaching out to take her shoulders, trying to physically move her away. She shook him off, trembling. “Don’t look. Come on, don’t do this to yourself-”

            Her hands shaking badly, Cora reached out and pressed her hand against the cold, bloodless cheek of her sister’s corpse.

            Laura's body was face-down, her neck bent so that she stared vacantly up at them, completely naked, limbs curled and bent unnaturally. The awful stench came from a wound around her waist like a belt. It was blackened and soft-looking, swollen with decay, although before Cora’s eyes, the skin seemed to be re-stitching itself, flesh binding once again to flesh.

            Reaching out, Stiles slowly wrapped his hands around Cora’s, interlocking their fingers, gently pulling her away from the corpse before them. “Cora…” he began, but before he said any more, she snatched her fingers away.

            “Stop it,” she said, and her voice shook. “Stiles. Stop. Stop.” She repeated this again, all the while staring at her sister’s face. And then she shook her head, tearing her gaze away, wetness pooling in her eyes. She wiped her face with her sleeve, and then she asked meekly, “Is this really here?”

            “I think so,” replied Stiles, examining the body. “Jesus. I’m sorry. I don’t think we’re dreaming, or hallucinating, or anything.” He paused, and then continued: “I can call my dad. They’ll move the body, you can bury her again, or something, I don’t know-”

            “No,” said Cora suddenly. “Stiles. No.”

            There was a silence. Gently, Stiles said, “You  _have_  to bury her, Cora. You don’t get to keep people who’ve died.” He stopped, looking from the girl to the body before them. Quietly, he said, “It won’t bring them back.”

            Cora held her hand out, hovered it just above the ugly, rotten blackness of the wound around Laura’s waist. “Look,” she whispered. “Do you see it?”

            “I-” he broke off, watching the wound. In shock, he looked back up to Cora. Very slowly, as if the image were still processing through his head, Stiles asked, “…Is she  _healing?_ ”

            Cora said nothing, only stared at the body before her.

            And then Stiles said, “Hey. Look.” He gestured to a faint mark at the base of Laura’s neck, brushing her long, brittle hair out of the way to reveal it: a symbol in raised black lines, like veins close to the surface of the skin. It was the symbol of the Morrigan.

            Above them, Lydia stood in the quiet afternoon, the air crisp and clear and cold. She shivered slightly, arms wrapped around herself for warmth. A fine mist began to hover near the ground, gradually working its way up around the clearing.

            On the other side of the stump of the Nemeton, through the mist, Lydia could see a figure, but she could not recognize them. “Stiles?” she called. “Is that you?” The mist shifted, and Lydia could make out long, dark hair. “Cora?” The figure did not move. “Can we go?” she called. “It’s cold. And you’re totally creeping me out right now.”

            Across the clearing, the figure did not move. Through the mist, Lydia could see glowing red eyes peering back at her.

            When Cora and Stiles finally returned, Lydia was lying on the earthy ground. When he saw her, panic shot down his spine, and Stiles shouted her name, running to her side. Cora followed soon after, kneeling beside her, the expression on her face hard. “She’s breathing,” Cora said. “I think she’s-”

            With a gasping breath, Lydia’s eyes flew open, eyelids fluttering at them. “Wh…?”

            “Lydia,” said Stiles. “What happened? Are you all right?”

            “What?” she asked fuzzily, squinting at him. “Oh. I’m fine, I’m fine.” She glanced around, then gestured at something at her feet. “You were right, I guess,” she sighed bitterly, as they all looked to see one of her shoes, the heel broken neatly off. “These shoes were not built for hiking around the woods.” She nodded at the tree behind her and said, “I hit my head when I fell.” They helped her to her feet, and she looked down at her outfit, disappointed. “This is  _so_ going to stain,” she said. “Why did I let you talk me into coming out here?”

            It took significantly less time to get back to the Hale house; Lydia still seemed slightly woozy, and they helped her into the back of the car, and then Stiles and Cora stood there in the shadow of the burnt-out home. His voice low, glancing into the car window at Lydia, Stiles said, “I don’t know why your sister was there, but that was some serious sacrifice-magic going on back there.”

            Without looking at him, her eyes focused on the house before them, Cora replied softly, “You don’t know that.”

            “Uh, no,” he said, and there was an edge in his voice. “I’m pretty sure I do.” He paused. When she said nothing, he continued stonily, “You remember last year, all of the sacrifices to Miss Blake?”

            “You mean the Darach,” she said.

            “Right, sure, the Darach. But all of those sacrifices came in threes.” He stopped, staring at her. “ _Think_  about it,” he insisted. “What Deaton said, about the Morrigan getting her power from male sacrifices. The mark on your sister’s back, the one we all keep seeing. The mother, the crone, and the maiden.”

            At long last, Cora glanced at Stiles, her eyes slightly narrowed in consideration. “What does that mean?” she asked.

            “What if that’s what’s happening?” he pressed. “The sacrifice from the other pack. Was it a male?”

            Cora stared at him, her brow creased in thought, and then she answered shortly, “…Yes.”

            “All right,” said Stiles, nodding. “Then maybe he – I don’t know, maybe he had a child? Or something? If the Morrigan is summoned by sacrificing a male version of the triquetra, then he should be the counterpart of the mother figure, like a father, or-”

            “Husband,” murmured Cora.

            Stiles looked at her. “Exactly,” he said.

            She closed her eyes, shaking her head.

            “What?” he asked. “What is it?”

            With a defeated sigh, she told him: “He had a mate. They were married.” She was silent for a second, and Stiles could tell she was not finished. He waited. And then she said quietly, “She didn’t make it.”

            He stared at her. “What?”

            “A mate,” she clarified, looking up at Stiles, “is so much more than your human concept of a lover, or a spouse. A mate is for life. A mate is a part of yourself.” She held her tongue, then added quietly, “Sometimes, if your mate is killed, it’s impossible to live without them.”

            Stiles didn’t say anything for a moment, unsure of what he could reply to that. “OK,” he said. “That’s the mother part. And then the crone-”

            “Allison’s grandfather,” said Cora, looking up at him, nodding.

            “Gerard!” said Stiles. “Right! And now all that’s left is the maiden.”

            “Maiden?” repeated Cora. “So a boy.”

            “Well, yeah,” replied Stiles, letting out a deep sigh. “I mean. Usually, maiden means, you know. Virgin. So.” He paused, then cleared his throat. “I mean. For the purposes of, you know, safety and whatnot…”

            Cora was no longer looking at him, cogs turning in her mind. Staring at the ground, her gaze far away, she asked, “But what does this have to do with Laura?”

            The look in his eyes turned from caution to something resembling pity, and he turned to glance up at the tall house in front of them, burnt black and gray. “Here’s my theory,” he began. Slowly, considering his words before he said them, he told her, “The Morrigan isn’t a creature. She’s a person. And whoever it is who’s making these sacrifices – they’re not trying to summon her.” His eyes slid across to Cora, who stared at him, deep in thought. Lowly, his voice little more than a mumble, he said, “They’re trying to resurrect her.”

            When Cora returned to the apartment she shared with her brother, closing the door quietly behind her, locking it, Derek was in the kitchen. “Hey, you,” he said. She didn’t reply, but glanced at him and then went to continue on to her room. “Hold on,” he called, reaching out, catching the back of her backpack. She turned around.

            “What.”

            He watched her, something like amusement in his eyes. Then he pulled out his phone, scrolled through something, and read aloud: “ _Taking Cora home today_. _Don’t worry_.” His eyes slid up to his sister, and then he added, “Stiles sent this to me.”

            “Yeah,” she said.

            There was a silence. He watched her carefully, but she said no more. Finally, he folded his arms and he said, “Stiles is an idiot. But if we need to have a – conversation – then you should know that there is  _no_  judgment on my part. None. If you need anything-”

            “Oh,  _God_ ,” she said scathingly, rolling her eyes, turning around. “Like you have any right to dispense relationship advice.”

            “Look, just so you know, if you have any  _questions_ -”

            She groaned loudly, opening the door to her room, entering, and slamming it shut behind her. Derek retreated, grinning, something like pride blooming in his chest.

            It was late that night – she made sure to wait until she could hear her brother’s gentle snores in the room next to her – that Cora slipped out of the apartment, heading down and out of town, slipping past the streets back into the dark forest from which she had come. She did not run, but passed the trees slowly, lifting a hand, brushing her fingers against the rough bark. Her claws left long marks along the wood, which she trailed around into a curve, a rudimentary spiral.

            The trees broke: the shell of a burnt-out house before her. Standing on the front steps, Grace stood, Rosemary hanging back at the door, Jaz sitting on the porch, smirking up at Cora through the darkness, her eyes glowing golden-yellow.

            Cora bared her teeth, fangs elongating, a growl purring in the back of his throat. Lowly, she said, “I know what you’re doing.”

            “Do you?” asked Grace, calling to her, eyes glinting. “Did you  _just_  figure it out, Cora?”

            Her voice hard, she advanced towards the house, claws sharp on the tips of her fingers. “You killed a member of your  _own_  pack,” she hissed, but Grace shrugged.

            “So did you,” she countered. Without breaking Cora’s gaze, she calmly descended the steps on the front of the house, continuing, “Good timing, too. Peter was holding you back, preventing from accessing your full power.” A smile pulled at her lips, and Cora stopped abruptly, but Grace kept moving, advancing forward. She reached out and brushed her fingers through Cora’s hair sympathetically, running her hands across the girl’s shoulders, down her arm. Tenderly, she murmured, “Alpha is your inheritance, Cora. You have power you don’t even know about. You are the last daughter of the Hales.”

            Cora glanced up at her, meeting her gaze.

            The smile returned to Grace’s face, broadening, shining. “Well,” she said fairly, “for now, at least.”

            Cora stared at her, then took a staggering step back, pulling away from Grace’s hands. The woman stood there, watching her. “So it’s true?” Cora asked, her voice fearful. “You’re going to bring her back.”

            Grace blinked, letting out a small, appreciative laugh. “No, no, Cora,” she said, shaking her head, clasping her hands behind her back. Behind her, Jaz got to her feet, and Rosemary stepped out of the shadows, lingering on the steps of the front porch. Grace moved forward, her steps silent even on the dense layer of leaves and organic matter. “ _I’m_  not going to bring her back.” From behind her, the house seemed to creak and groan, as if full once more, as if protesting against the threat that Grace’s wide smile and gleaming eyes posed threateningly towards its daughter. With one final step towards Cora, Grace murmured: “ _You_  are.”

            Cora stared at her. A muscle jumped in her jaw, and her gaze flickered back to the other two wolves behind her. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice hard. Nodding back at Rosemary, she added, “Your emissary. Is she the one casting the spell?”

            For a second, Grace only watched Cora. And then she turned, opening her body to look back at Rosemary. The tall woman with long hair bowed her head slightly, still on the steps of the house. “There are benefits and disadvantages,” she said softly, knowing that Cora could hear her, however quiet she was, “to giving the bite to one’s emissary.” She shook her long hair back, her cheekbones harsh and high in the silvery light. “I can’t harness that kind of power. I can only make it available to redirection to someone capable.”

            “Exactly,” said Grace, nodding her head, slitting her gaze back to Cora. “Which is where you come in.”

            “Me? How?” demanded Cora. “I haven’t done anything. I didn’t even know.”

            “That’s all right,” said Grace reassuringly. “That’s the beauty of it. You didn’t have to do anything except come into the power that was rightfully yours. There are others who will complete the spell.”

            “What?” asked Cora, and she fought to keep her pulse down in anger and frustration, glancing in between Grace and her Betas. “Who?” So slowly it was almost unconscious, she continued to move backwards, away from them, away from her empty home. “I didn’t ask for this,” she reminded them fiercely. “I killed Peter because of what he did to Laura, and the way he treated Derek. I didn’t do it to – I never meant to-”

            “What are you saying, Cora?” asked Grace softly, staring into her eyes. “You don’t want your sister back?”

            “No!” replied Cora instantly, distressed. “Of course I – but she’s…” he trailed off, and then, eyes wide, she asked, “…How?”

            Grace lifted her hand to the hem of her shirt and tugged it down, exposing part of her chest on her left side. Over her heart, the symbol of the Morrigan was tattooed onto her skin in white ink, like a scar. “The mother, the crone,” she said, staring at Cora, the marks along her chin moving with her jaw as she spoke, “and the maiden. When all three reach Alpha, the triquetra can be activated.”

            “ _What?_ ” asked Cora. “What does that  _mean?_ ”

            “Don’t you get it?” asked Grace, tension in her voice, covering her chest again. “The  _crone_  doesn’t necessarily mean an old woman, Cora, it’s the old, pagan definition, referring to proximity to death.” She paused, but Cora did not seem to understand. “Your sister is coming back,” she said clearly, enunciating every word, “but the spell isn’t yet finished. She’s only half alive.” Her eyes were wide, focused solely on Cora. “The mother, the anchor,” she said again. “ _Your_  mother. The crone, the receptacle. Your sister. And the maiden. The conduit.” She stopped, staring at Cora. Shortly, she said: “You.”

            There was a deep silence. And then Cora took another step backwards, shaking her head. “No,” she said. “This is impossible. I can’t do this.”

            “Not alone, no,” noted Grace, with a nod. “It’s been a labor of love.” With an elegant nod, she added, “And we’ve had some help. One needs a human druid to complete a spell through the Nemeton, of course. Obviously, there is a very real cost, and it can be dangerous for everyone involved.” She paused, eyes on Cora. “But don’t worry. We’ve been keeping an eye on you, to keep you safe.”

            From inside the house, there was movement. The red door shifted, creaking open, and a familiar scent filled Cora’s nostrils, and she recognized who it was before she even stepped out of the shadows. Snarling, breathless with betrayal, Cora growled, “Sam.”

            Sam nodded, but there was no smile on her lips. “For the record,” she said, stepping down the stairs, moving forward, towards Grace and Cora, “you are  _painfully_  bad at sharing secrets with your would-be best friend. It was turning into a chore.”

            Cora bared her teeth. “You’ve been with them this whole time?”

            “Yes,” replied Sam, with a shrug. “Good thing you never bit me, huh? That could have been awkward.”

            Heart pumping, Cora turned back to Grace, hatred dripping from her face. “Come on now, Cora,” sighed Grace, moving forward, reaching for Cora’s hand. “Don’t turn this into a betrayal, not you. So we were keeping tabs on you. It was for your own protection.”

            She tore her hand away from Grace and said icily, “I can protect myself.”

            Grace watched her, the smile fading away from her face. Voice soft and infinitely more dangerous, she asked, “Can you?”

            Cora narrowed her eyes, still retreating away from Grace, at the edge of the forest. She began to ask, “What does that m-”

            Her foot hit something behind her, and she glanced around, expecting to see the solid trunk of a tree.

            A face bone-white and bloodless leered at her, jaw loosely hanging from the rest of her face, eyes filmy and gray. Laura’s body breathed the sour stink of rot into Cora’s face, and Cora screamed; a hand shot out to the back of her neck, and she struggled against it, then something shot through her body in a wave of immense pain, and her eyes rolled back into her head, clenching her teeth, fingers spread apart, unable to breathe. From her nose, a viscous black goo streamed down her face, dripping from her chin to her clothes to the ground beneath her. At the base of her neck, black veins rose to the surface for just a single moment, outlining a symbol underneath her skin.

            When she came to, she lay alone before her broken house. Getting to her hands and knees, she retched a thick black liquid onto the ground, then wiped her mouth, slowly rising to her feet. A circular spot on her back burned, the scar of the Morrigan – herself, her mother, her sister – carved into her skin.


	10. Mafdet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles figures it out.

Mafdet

 

 

He cuts off your head with this his knife which was in the hand of the panther-cat Mafdet  
she who lives [in the house of Life]

  
He draws those (teeth) which are in your mouth,  
he saps your seed (poison) with those four strings  
which were in the service of the sandal of Osiris.  
Monster, lie down!

x.

            Allison stood in her kitchen, the light on, shining in the darkness, a phone pressed to her ear. “Is he OK?” she asked, with concern. “I mean, it hasn’t hurt him or anything, right?”

            “No,” replied Scott’s voice, on the other line. “But I’m more worried about him hurting himself. And it doesn’t help that tonight’s the full moon, too.”

            In her home, Allison ran a hand through her hair, pulling her bangs away from her eyes. “Can I talk to him?” she asked.

            “Um, I don’t think so,” said Scott, glancing back at a door in the small, dark apartment.

            “Why not?”

            Moving to the door, Scott replied: “He locked himself in the bathroom. He was talking to himself earlier, but now he’s not really saying anything. Hold on.” He took the phone away from his ear and reached up, tentatively knocking on the door. “Isaac?” he called, his voice kind. “Are you still in there?” Nothing. But Scott could hear Isaac’s heartbeat from the other side of the door, smell his scent, sharpened by the dank, pungent odor of fear. “Isaac,” said Scott again, leaning his forehead against the door. “Allison’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you.” Silence. “Don’t you want to talk to Allison, Isaac? Come on. Just open the door. Don’t be scared. Nobody’s gonna hurt you, I promise.”

            There was a split second of total silence. And then, suddenly, piercing through the quiet, Isaac let out a shrill, ringing scream that resounded in Scott’s skull, rattling him down his spine, and Scott shouted the other boy’s name as he continued to scream, breathless and terrified. Scott dropped the phone, yelling at Isaac until finally he kicked hard, knocking through the door, rushing into the little bathroom, instantly on his knees before the other boy, who writhed on the floor, curled up. For an instant, Scott was reminded of the day they laid Isaac down in the tub full of ice; he had let out the same thrashing, whimpering screams then, although now they were much more intense. Just like then, when Scott moved forward, Isaac’s hand shot out and grasped his arm tightly, clinging to him.

            “It’s OK,” said Scott, holding on to Isaac, whose eyes darted around the room. He flinched away from something invisible, covering his face and eyes, a profoundly human instinct he’d developed far before he became a wolf. “Isaac,” said Scott, and he tried to smile, tried to lift Isaac away from whatever was torturing him, holding on tightly. “Look at me. Come on, don’t think about anything else. Look at _me_ , I’m right here in front of you, and whatever you’re scared of isn’t real. OK? Isaac. Look at me.”

            Very slowly, Isaac’s eyes seemed to refocus, coming in more clearly. He finally met Scott’s gaze, but his grip did not loosen.

            “See?” said Scott, smiling at Isaac. “Nothing to worry about. I’m right here.” He moved slightly, tugging himself away, untangling his limbs from Isaac. “Are you OK?” he asked, and Isaac nodded dumbly, his mouth hanging open, staring around vacantly. “OK,” said Scott, and he glanced back at where he dropped the phone. Without quite letting go of Isaac, he leaned across the floor, reaching out. His fingers barely brushed the tip of the phone; he elongated his claws, and managed to pull it back towards him, and he put it to his ear, tucking it between his shoulder, both hands going back to Isaac, checking his body methodically for any wounds. “Hi,” he said, into the phone. “You still there?”

            “Yeah,” replied Allison. “Is he all right?”

            “I think so,” sighed Scott. “But he might not be much help for a while.” Scott waved his hand before Isaac’s face, and the other boy didn’t even blink. “He’s kind of out of it. I think I’m gonna take him home. I can’t leave him here all alone.”

            “That’s a good idea.”

            He paused, and then asked, “Speaking of, where are you?”

            She replied, “At home.”

            “With your dad?”

            “He’s out,” she replied shortly, shaking her head. “But I don’t need him to keep me safe, Scott.”

            “I know that,” said Scott. “But with everything going on right now, it’s probably better if you’re not alone either. Not because I don’t think you can take care of yourself! – but if something happens, you should have someone there. For _you_.”

            Smiling slightly, leaning back on the counter, Allison replied, “That’s sweet, but I’ll make it fine on my own, Scott.”

            “Hey,” said Scott. “I have an idea. Why don’t I bring Isaac to your place?”

            “Um,” began Allison uncertainly, “I don’t know if my dad would be cool with a catatonic werewolf crashing on the couch-”

            “Not for a long time,” Scott reassured her. “Just so I can be with you for a while, so you’re not alone.”

            She considered this for a second, her desire to be with Scott clashing with her instinct to take care of herself. And then, almost reluctantly, she said, “Sure. I’ve been meaning to take another look at the bestiary, anyway. You can help.”

            “That isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” replied Scott, grinning, still holding on to Isaac, “but OK. Sounds good. See you soon.”

            “See you. ‘Bye.” She hung up, holding her phone before her for a moment, in the still quiet of her house. Then she put it on the countertop and looked up, around her. Deliberately, she did not glance above her, to where the blood had pooled on the night she saw her mother again. But she did look around her, eyes open and alert, leaning against the counter. Her body was not completely relaxed. She didn’t move. She was not afraid. She was waiting.

            It started, as it had before, with a chill tickling up the length of her spine. Allison didn’t immediately move. Instinctually, her hand traveled down her leg, expecting to reach a weapon, but then she reminded herself that she had abandoned them, locked them up and away from her. There was something ominously invasive about the visions she had been seeing, but she could not think they were any physical danger to her. Like Scott had said about Isaac, if she panicked, if she forgot her training and wielded the weapons she thought she knew so well poorly, then _she_ was the biggest threat to herself. The memory of shooting blindly at the wolves which hadn’t been there ran through her mind, and a part of her trembled in fear as she imagined what could have happened if her father had entered the Hale house a few minutes earlier, when she was in the midst of her hallucinations. No. If these things – hallucinations, or ghosts, or whatever – were trying to trick her into hurting anyone, including herself, she would not let them.

            The sound of something falling in the garage. Instantly, her gaze snapped to the door. She remembered the knock coming from the same door, the blood tightening around her throat, her mother’s dead eyes staring at her, thin, white lips saying her name. The second she thought it, she heard it again, flooding in like a whisper from beneath the garage door, like a gas trickling in. Her name chimed, a chorus of voices, reaching her, tugging her towards the door. She moved forward, and, spending no time to consider what could be on the other side, she opened the door to the garage.

            The light was on, emitting the supremely mundane buzz of fluorescent lighting. Her car was there. At the far end, guns and weapons hung on the wall, behind a chain-link cabinet. As she watched, her eyes narrowed, there was a slight creaking sound, and one side of the cabinet banged uselessly in place. The lock, she saw, was no longer there.

            For a moment, she did not move. And then, steeling herself, Allison moved forward, crossing the garage, putting her hand against the cold metal surface, searching around on the table for the padlock. Tools surrounded her. Weapons, blades and guns, blinking at her, taunting her. Behind her, someone laughed. She whipped around, heart pumping. There was no one there.

            Slowly, she turned back to the table, reaching her hand up again to touch the cabinet. Like a ring of fire bursting around her wrist, burning her, sending pain up every nerve in her body, a hand clamped around her wrist, so tightly she felt bone scrape in the joint. Struggling, she looked around, and her mother looked back at her, the symbol carved into her forehead. “Allison,” said her mother, her pupils covered with a shining film, “listen to me. It’s not that hard. It’s something of a tradition. Violence. Blood. It’s very simple.”

            Allison did not breathe, her eyes focused on her hand, which her mother forced down with unnatural strength. Her palm was flat against the wall beside a display of thick hunting knives, all of which Allison had wielded before.

            Again, her said quietly, “It’s not hard. There are people waiting for you, daughters of our family.” She shifted, and the stink of rot blew into Allison’s face as her mother pressed against her, her face hovering beside her cheek. “In your family,” she whispered, her head cocked slightly, moving with some indefinable reptilian capacity; a great smile broke out on her lips, and she continued, “…our leaders do not die gently.”

            Abruptly, her mother's hand slid upwards along Allison's skin, curling Allison’s fingers around the hilt of a knife. Allison’s breath finally broke and she tore the knife from its holder, whipped around, and began to thrust the knife towards her mother’s chest.

            She froze, knife in hand. Her mother stared at her with those gray eyes. Blood trickled down from the corner of her mouth as she watched her daughter, and Allison could see nothing but the knife already lodged in her mother's chest, piercing her no longer beating heart. The long hunting knife clattered out of Allison’s hand, onto the floor.

            Victoria Argent put her hand to her chest, grasped the hilt of the kitchen knife in her chest, and drew it out, leaving a gaping wound in her body. “No,” she said quietly. “We have no patience for quiet deaths.”

            Before Allison could move, something grabbed her from behind, arms wrapped around her throat, pulling her backwards, knocking her off her feet. Gasping for breath, she struggled against the grip, her throat constricted. She scrabbled desperately against the arms at her neck, her fingernails rending through flesh, and then she dropped onto the floor, sucking breath into her lungs, her pulse skyrocketing in fear. And then, above her, there was laughter again, that awful, chuckling laughter, and through hazy eyes she looked up, and Kate crouched above her, bloodstained below the gaping tear across her throat, her face pale and bloodless. “Leader?” asked Kate, tauntingly. Her hand shot out, catching Allison around the throat. “This little girlie? This _kid?_ Allison, you’re cute and all, but you were _never_ -” she thrust down on her throat, crushing Allison’s larynx; she could feel the breath caught in her lungs, Kate bared her teeth in hatred, and her blood dripped down onto Allison’s face as she hissed, “- _capable_.”

            Kate laughed again, and Allison's mother watched her, the knife in her hand. Allison could do nothing, her blood loud and rushing in her ears, tears pooling in her eyes and fear twisting in her chest, her senses lost on the dead women before her, the pain in her body, the pain that she _knew_ could not be real. She looked up at her aunt again, at that expression of hatred in Kate’s eyes that she had never, _ever_ known, and then something seemed to click into place in Allison’s body, and she stopped struggling.

            She raised her hands to Kate’s, at her neck. The breath she could not breathe was no longer painful. Slowly, she lifted her fingers before her eyes.

            And then, quick as the arrows she so often let loose, she reached up and took her aunt’s head in her hands, twisting sharply. On a living human, her neck would’ve broken and she would have died instantly, but in this awful ghost, the neck twisted but she hardly moved. Allison tore herself away from those cold hands and grabbed a handful of her aunt’s hair, throwing her to the ground. At the same moment she jabbed her knee upwards, colliding solidly with the front of Kate’s face, with a dull, satisfying, crunch.

            Getting to her feet, she allowed the ghostly body of her aunt to fall to the ground, filmy gray eyes moving restlessly in their sockets. Allison wiped her cheeks with her sleeve and then spat, “That was for what you did to me.”

            And then she stomped, hard, on Kate’s face. Blood did not flow, but it oozed from her nose and the wounds along her cheek and brow bone. She did not move, her limbs splayed loosely out. Raising her foot one final time, she came crushing down on the ghost of her aunt’s jaw, and there was a loud, satisfying _crack_ , and some odd, unattached quality to Kate’s face when Allison removed her foot.

            “And _that_ ,” she said breathlessly, staring down at the body before her, “was for Derek Hale.”

            She glanced up, her eyes dark.

            The ghost of her mother still stood there, the knife in her hand at her side. “Allison,” she began, stricken, “look what you’ve done. To your _family_. You are a _disgrace_. You are not worthy of your family’s legacy.”

            Allison knelt down and tugged a knife from the belt at Kate’s waist. “ _Allison_ ,” insisted the thing. “You listen to me. I am your _mother_ -” Barely glancing up, she twisted it around her fingers, then threw it forward at the ghost-thing, with force. It landed on her forehead, squarely in the mark of the Morrigan, and she stared at her with wide eyes. And then she was gone, and so was Kate’s body, and Allison was alone.

            Breathing hard, Allison shook back her hair. She stared around her, and then, lowly, she said, “You are _not_ my mother.”

            A padlock sat on the surface of the table, and she took it and slipped it onto the cabinet before her, then went back into the house, turning off the light in the garage behind her, running her fingers over her unwounded neck as she left.

                   With difficulty, Scott managed to get Isaac out to the car, tucking him into the passenger seat, buckling the seatbelt across his body. He got in before the wheel, starting the car. For a moment, they didn’t move, and Scott glanced over at Isaac.

            “What did you see?” he asked, and the sheer depth of the stark, simple compassion in Scott’s voice was breathtaking. He didn’t glance away from Isaac, eyes big and worried. Gently, he asked, “Did you see your father?”

            It took a moment, and then Isaac suddenly turned, looking at Scott as if he had just realized he was not alone. Slowly, he turned his gaze back to the windshield before him, and he shook his head. “No,” he murmured, very quietly. “No…”

            Scott blinked, leaning forward, trying to catch Isaac’s gaze. “No?” he repeated. “Who was it, then?”

            Isaac’s lips began to move, but no sound came out. Finally, it came with a rushing sigh, more breath than word, and Scott stared at Isaac, blinking.

            Isaac whispered, “Derek.”

-

            Not far away, Stiles blinked up in the near-darkness, his chest rising and falling quickly. “OK,” he said, his voice unusually high, “should we have maybe not done this on the full moon?”

            “Why?” murmured Cora, her hands on either side of his head, lowering her mouth to nip against his jaw; despite his reservations, he turned his head, allowing her for easier access, and she sucked at a spot at the top of his neck, and he squeezed his lips together, biting back a noise. Lips drawing back in a smile, she whispered into his ear, “You don’t think I can control myself?”

            “Oh, God,” he said in reply, his arms thrown uselessly out on his bed on either side of him. “I’m  _hoping_  you can’t control yourself, if that’s what you’re talking about. But if you’re talking about the claws and fangs thing, I mean, no, yeah, I’d prefer it if we could avoid that.”

            She giggled, and his stomach fluttered a little, both in arousal and because every time she laughed, he wanted her to never stop, he wanted to bottle that feeling and drink it every day. Her left hand went up to the side of his face, cupping his cheek, and it occurred to him for the first time how much smaller than him she was, her thin fingers trailing along the skin of his face. Her hand trailed down her neck, and she moved her head, pressing her mouth against the side of his face, his temple, his forehead. Stiles’s eyes were open, and the light of the moon illuminated her skin before him, the delicate, thin sinews of her neck, her chest, the spot where the neckline of her shirt began. He stared, and then, meekly, he began, “Is it OK if I-”

            “Yes,” breathed Cora, her hand pressing against the crook of his neck. “Yes, Stiles, could I  _be_  any more obvious?”

            “Hey,” protested Stiles, leaning forward, reaching up and around her, pressing his lips against the base of her neck. “Don’t you know that-” he kissed her skin, electricity running up his spine as he dragged his teeth along her collarbone, nibbling there, sucking gently, “-communication is-” she leaned forward, letting out a moaning breath, a hand trailing down his side, “-communication is  _important_ , Cora-”

            She sat up, tearing her skin away from his mouth, and he made a noise of protest, raising his hands, grabbing emptily at air. He looked up at her, jutting out his lip in a faux-pout. With another giggle – something in him died a little, he needed that giggle so badly – she slid down on his body, straddling his hips. “Fine,” she said faintly, her hands on his still-clothed stomach, staring down at him intensely. “Then  _communicate_.”

            With that, she slipped her hands underneath his t-shirt, and he let out a funny little yelp, and she grinned. “Louder,” she said, sliding her hands up his skin, trailing along his ribs. Her hands slid across his nipples and he let out another groan, telling himself he was humoring her, but he squirmed underneath her touch and it was irrepressible. Then her hands appeared above his collar, tucking behind his neck, and she tugged, and something brought him back and he lifted his arms, moving in tandem with her to pull his t-shirt all the way off. She stared at his body for a moment, until he wriggled slightly, comically folding his arms, covering up.

            “Oh, stop,” he muttered, batting his eyelashes at her. “I’m indecent.”

            She laughed once more, and lowered her head, tucking a hand behind his and kissing him on the lips. They lingered there for a moment, and then she pulled away, lowering herself down to his neck then trailing down across his chest and stomach. He made another noise, partly because he knew she liked it and partly because her fingers were tracing along his lower stomach, just above the waist of his jeans. She did indeed seem to like it, running her hands along his body, her mouth working on her chest. Vaguely, it occurred to Stiles that he’d have marks all over him tomorrow morning, and that made him let out another noise, for which she, again, rewarded him.

            His fingers dug into her head, twisting her hair through his fingers. He tugged upwards, and she took her mouth away from his skin and slid back up to hover above his face, her body lying completely against his. “That’s pretty…” began Stiles, his fingers still in her hair, “…wow.” He let out an awkward laugh, and then said, “ _Phew_. Wow. Oh my God. Please tell me this is really happening.” She kissed the side of his face, and he let her, hardly moving. “Because,” he continued, his eyes fluttering shut slightly, “if this is some crazy good dream, I… I mean, I’ll be comatose. Forever. I don’t even care. I really, really, don’t, like I would pretty much miss out on basically all of life if I could just – if you would just…” he trailed off, and her kisses on his jaw turned more aggressive, and she nipped at him with her teeth. “ _Ouch_ ,” he breathed, his hand flickering up to his face. “That hurts.”

            She drew back, looking at him with shining, reflective eyes. He thought he saw something in them flicker scarlet. Patiently, she muttered, “It’s supposed to.”

            He swallowed, staring her in the eye. Faintly, he said, “OK.”

            Again lowering herself to his chest, she murmured, “How long before your dad gets home?”

            “Um,” he said, eyes closed, back arching involuntarily at her touch, “I don’t know. What time is it?” Cora stopped, sitting up, reaching for her phone, and he said, “No, no, no! Don’t stop, oh my God.” She smiled at him coyly, then returned to his skin. “I don’t know, like a few hours or something. He said he’d be late tonight, but, you know. We could always get started, if you wanted.” He shifted beneath her, taking a deep breath. “I’m not gonna lie to you, I’m, like, halfway there already.”

            She looked up again, her fingers scraping down his chest. “You’re so easy,” she remarked, and she sounded amused.

            “I am,” said Stiles, nodding, taking her hands. “I am so easy. I am the easiest. Would it be at all possible to get naked now?”

            Whatever he began to reply was lost as it turned into a high whine as she sat up, straddling his waist, and curled her fingers beneath the hem of her shirt, tugging it off. When he breathed again, after a single moment of stunned silence, it was a layered, shuddery sort of breath, and Cora grinned, bending back over to press their faces together. Her eyes were so close that they were out of focus, almost blurry in his vision, he whispered, “You’re incredible.”

            “And you’re such a virgin,” she said pointedly, smirking at him.

            “Exactly,” he replied, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, then trailing his hands down her back. “Which literally puts me in danger right now. I mean, not  _right now_. Not unless you go all crazy full moon werewolf on me, which, to be honest, you probably totally could. Which wouldn’t be  _that_  bad.” She raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged as best he could, lying with her body above him. “There are worse ways to go,” he said sagely, “than in bed with a beautiful woman with her werewolf-legs wrapped around your waist.”

            “That’s ambitious,” she said, deliberately pulling one leg upwards. Gently, she rolled her knee in between his legs, and he let out another loud breath. “Keep talking and I’ll put my clothes back on.”

            “You barely have your clothes  _off_ -”

            She shook his arms off of her and sat up, then pulled the straps of her bra off of her shoulders, and grinned at him.

            “Oh,” he said dimly. “OK.”

            Her back curving into a perfect, delicate arch, she leaned down and kissed him on the mouth again. Pulling away, she began, “Can you…?”

            And he responded, “Can I…?”

            Without another word, she pulled her legs off of him and then looked at him expectantly. When he seemed lost, she just sighed, “Get up.”

            “Up?” he repeated uncertainly, slowly sliding up the bed.

            “Just sit up,” she said, reaching out, putting a hand on his side, feeling his ribs beneath his skin. “Just like that.”

            He sat with his back pressed against the wall, and Cora slipped back onto him, sitting on his lap. Finally, he reached out with his own hands, pressing them against her warm skin, slowing making his way up from the gentle curve of the top of her hips to the hard underwire of her bra. Gazing at her open-mouthed, he slipped his fingers underneath, gently pressing against the swell of her breasts. Sitting on top of him, she rocked back and forth slightly and he retracted his hands, clinging to her breathily, mouth breathing hotly onto the side of her neck. Her hands hovered at his waist, digging into the top of his jeans at the back, fingers meeting the waistband of his boxers. He opened his eyes hazily, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, staring down fuzzily at the length of her back.

            And then, abruptly, he lifted his head, the looseness in his body disappearing, replaced with a taut, conscious movement. “Oh my God,” he said, reaching around her, pressing at her skin at the base of her neck. “What the hell is that?”

            “What?” she asked instantly, pulling away from him. She reached a hand behind her back, touching the spot where his fingers had touched her. As she did so, the cup of her bra on the opposite side lowered, and Stiles, still enormously and now inconveniently aroused,  had to tear his eyes away from the sight of her chest, biting his lip. “What is it?”

            With a tremendous force of will, Stiles gently pushed Cora away, extracting himself from her. “Turn around,” he said.

            She narrowed her eyes at him. “This better not be some trick,” she said, but she obliged, shifting in the bed to sit facing away from him. “If you can’t get my bra off without looking at it, you can just ask me for help, you know.”

            “That’s not it,” he snapped. Then, tentatively he added, “Although now that we’re here…”

            “Stiles,” she said. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

            He didn’t say anything for a moment, watching her face, slightly turned over her shoulder. And then he reached out and collected her long hair in his hands, parting it, exposing her upper back. “Here,” he said, reaching out and lightly placing a finger on the mark. “Like a tattoo, or something. It’s the Morrigan, the symbol of the Morrigan.”

            Again, Cora reached behind her back to touch the spot; this time, Stiles caught her fingers, holding them. He traced her index finger along the black grooves of the mark, and then, slowly, he let her hand go, his own hand falling down back to the bed. “Oh,” said Cora.

            There was a silence. Then Stiles asked, “Oh?”

            “Yes,” she replied curtly. “Oh.”

            “What do you mean,  _oh_?” he asked, tugging at her to turn her around again, meeting her eye. “Your sister – your  _dead_  sister – had this same exact thing right here, exactly like you. What does that mean?”

            “Wow,” she said, already irritated. “You really know how to charm a girl, mentioning my dead sister while we’re in bed and all.”

            “I’m not joking,” said Stiles loudly, his voice hard. “If you’re in danger-”

            “Then what?” she demanded, staring up at him with eyes flashing crimson. “You’re going to protect me? What can you do, Stiles? Answer that, and I’ll let you. How would you protect me?”

            He stared at her for a second, and then glanced around the room. “I don’t know,” he replied, almost as sharply. “Deaton said I was an emissary now. So some weird druid magicks, that’s what I’d do for you.”

            She stared at him. “Some weird druid magicks.”

            “To keep you safe? Hell yeah.”

            “I don’t need your help,” she said. “Whatever’s happening to my family is happening to  _my_  family. You aren’t involved.”

            “Um, yeah,” countered Stiles, “I kind of am? I leaked black goo right out of my nose, that’s usually an indicator that there’s freaky werewolf shenanigans afoot, and that I may or may not become casualty to one of them. Besides, what do you mean I’m not involved? I thought pack  _was_  family.”

            At this, something changed in her expression, almost imperceptibly. “You’re not in my pack,” she told him. “You’re in Scott’s.”

            “Yeah,” said Stiles fairly, nodding. “I guess. I love that guy to death and back, Cora, but…” he paused, then looked up at her. Meeting her gaze, his voice slightly quieter, he finished, “…there are a lot of reasons I’d want to be with you.”

            Neither of them said anything immediately. Stiles leaned forward, reaching out a hand to take her chin for a kiss. She turned her head away, and his lips met only the side of her face.

            Lowly, she said, “I shouldn’t have come.”

            “Um, yeah,” said Stiles. “Not quite there yet, but-”

            With more force, she said, “I don’t like needing people.”

            “Well,” said Stiles, “OK, but – do you  _need_  me, or do you just want me, because I’m totally cool with either or-”

            “You were right,” she said suddenly, and her gaze was far away, beyond Stiles. “They’re bringing her back.”

            “Oh, woah,” he said, leaning forward, taking hold of her arms. “What? Your sister?”

            “Laura,” she said, her expression grim. She closed her eyes tightly, pulling her face away from him, and then, after a few moments, she continued, “They’re bringing her back and I – I want them to. I  _want_  them to do it. I don’t care what it takes.” She lowered her face, refusing to look at them. So lowly he could hardly hear, she whispered, “I hate myself for needing her. I didn’t need anyone for a long time, Stiles, I don’t want to lose – all of that-”

            “Woah, woah, woah,” said Stiles, bewildered. “Listen. Cora. You don’t  _lose_  anything just because you want the people you love back. And you don’t lose anything by loving anyone in the first place, either. I mean, think about Scott, there’s basically no one in the world he  _doesn’t_  love, and he’s a True Alpha. I think it even makes him stronger.” He paused, then asked, “But what do you mean they’re bringing her back? Who is?”

            “Grace’s pack,” she breathed. “Grace was – Grace was Laura’s mate, before the fire. And now she’s here and she’s bringing Laura back and she’s using me.”

            “Using you?” asked Stiles. “How?”

            “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “It has something to do with me becoming the Alpha. And they’re…”

            She let out a frustrated breath, and then pulled up the straps of her bra, moving her legs out between them, holding them in to her chest.

            “Sam is one of them,” she said bitterly. “She was playing me. I should’ve seen right through it.”

            There was a silence. And then Stiles said, “Hey. At least you have one friend.”

            She looked up at him, her eyes shining.

            Deadpan serious, he said, “Your brother.” She made a face, and he laughed and said, “I’m kidding, totally kidding. I meant me. I’m your one friend. Your one friend-who-is-a-boy. Your boyfriend. Maybe. I don’t know. If you want.”

            She watched him, worried. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her whole body awkwardly, leaning his head on her knees.

            “The mother, the crone, and the maiden,” he repeated, his voice soft. “I didn’t really give a damn about that guy from the other pack, or Allison’s grandfather, but we don’t really let people kill kids around here, Cora. I know you want your sister back, but if that means sacrificing an innocent probably-virgin-”

            “Stop worrying,” she said, reaching outand patting him on the cheek. “I doubt your virginity is deciding factor on this one.”

            “You don’t know that!” he said. “For all you know, forces of darkness are waiting under the bed right now, until you leave without having sex with me, at which time they will appear, and carry my poor virginal body off to the Nemeton, where they will use me to revive your sister. That sounds  _awful_. I do not want that to happen.”

            She watched him for a moment. And then, lifting her head, she asked, “Are you trying to extort me into sex?”

             “What?” he said instantly. “I’m… no, I’m just  _saying_ …”

            With a small sigh, she pulled away from him, scooting to the edge of his bed, hanging her head off the side, lowering the top of her head to the floor. And then she pulled herself back up and told him smartly, “Nope. No forces of darkness under your bed.”

            “Oh,” said Stiles, “well, good. Looks like I’m not in any danger, then.”

            “I’ll protect you,” she said, reaching out, taking hold of his face. “Whatever’s haunting everybody else, no matter how stupid it sounds – I’ll keep it away from you. I promise.”

            He put a hand on hers, on his cheek. And then, quietly, he asked, “How?”

            Cora watched him. “I don’t know,” she murmured, “but she’s my sister. I know her.”

            “Yeah, but,” he said, curling his fingers around her hand, looking up at her, “what if she’s not?”

            She stared at him. “What does that mean?” she asked, turning her head, looking slightly away.

            “I’m just saying,” he continued, and she pulled her hand away, but he still held onto it. “This all seems a lot more witchy than it should. Even Peter didn’t use sacrifices when he came back.” He paused, watching her, eyes wide and alert. “Her body was cut in half, Cora,” he said. “And now it’s like the Morrigan is torturing all of us –  _us_ , Scott’s pack, and we’re not even-”

            He broke off suddenly, eyes widening.

            She turned to him, seeing the expression on his face. “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

            When he spoke again, his voice was lower, a different timbre. “Lydia said something," he said, looking to her. "About the other pack." He reached out to her; she took his hands, confused. “How long have they been here?”

            “How long?” she repeated doubtfully. “I don’t know. Since school started, I guess. That’s when the animal mutilations showed up, and Grace talked to me.” Stiles stared at her hands, thinking hard. She held onto him, leaning forward. “ _What?_ ” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

            He glanced up, met her eye. “This haunting,” he said, “or whatever the hell it is, whatever it is that’s been happening to me. I was sure it was unrelated, and that's partly because…” he hesitated, then admitted, “It’s been going on for months now. Before school started, before the other pack showed up. All summer, almost since before you and Derek left.”

            She blinked at him. “What does that mean?” she asked.

            “Cora,” he replied urgently, “what if Grace’s pack isn’t here to revive your sister? What if they came here because they knew she was already coming back?”

            There was a moment of silence. “She said there was someone else,” said Cora, looking up at him, the cogs turning on and on in her head. “A human, who would complete the spell. Maybe they started it in the first place, before her pack showed up.” She watched him, her breath steady and measured. “But if it wasn’t Grace and her pack,” she said, “then who is it? Who’s making the spell?”

            “I don’t know,” said Stiles, shaking his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know.” He thought about this, a hand pressed over his face, and then he looked up at her and asked, “When did you become the Alpha?”

            “That depends,” she replied, nodding her head. “When Derek saved my life, his power transferred to me. It’s a version of an ancient ritual, the way Alpha is usually passed down from mother to daughter.”

            “What?” asked Stiles, his gaze snapping up to her face. “What, what do you mean, an  _ancient ritual_? How is Alpha usually passed down?”

            She looked around the bed, and then she found her shirt, slipping it on, pulling her hair out of the collar. “When an Alpha gets too old to lead the pack,” she told him, “her eldest daughter takes her place. It doesn’t require that the daughter kill her mother, but the siphoning of power is so strong that…” she glanced up at him, her eyes dark and low, “…the mother doesn’t usually survive.”

            “Why didn’t it kill Derek?” asked Stiles seriously.

            “Because it was a weak version of the ritual,” she replied, shaking her head. “I didn’t know it could be done like that at all – Alpha runs in the blood of our daughters, so technically it wasn’t his power to give. Which is probably why Peter told him about it in the first place, he just thought Derek would lose his status as Alpha. And then he was next in line.” Stiles began to say something, a look of confusion rising on his face, but she continued, “That’s why I wasn’t as powerful as I should have been as Alpha until  _after_  I killed Peter.”

            The room went dead silent, as if something had been dropped. After a single moment, a hand flew to her mouth, covering her lips in horror. Stiles stared at her.

            His voice hard, he said, “You told us the other pack killed him.”

            For a moment, she said nothing. And then, slowly, she removed her hand from over her mouth, and her expression was unafraid. “Peter killed my sister,” she said, her voice steady. “And you’ve seen the way he is with Derek, the way he humiliated him-”

            “I thought that was just being an Alpha,” Stiles shot back. “You’re the same way with Derek now. It’s like he needs your permission to  _speak_.”

            “That power is mine,” she replied stonily, “rightfully.”

            “No, it’s not,” countered Stiles. “It’s your sister’s. And it looks like she’s coming back for it.”

            “You think I regret killing Peter?” she asked loudly, slipping off his bed, standing up. There was a manic sort of energy in the way she held herself, staring at him with big, angry eyes. “I don’t. My uncle got out the same way I did, Stiles, and he  _knew_  I was alive. I pulled him down, out of the fire. I was  _eleven years old_ , and I saved his life, and did he once – did he once  _ever_  tell Derek? Did he ever  _mention_  me?”

            She stared at Stiles, her chest heaving with furious breaths. A cloud passed in the sky, and shining moonlight filtered in the window, illuminating the side of her face, casting dark shadows across her skin. Her eyes burnt red.

            “OK,” said Stiles lowly, getting to his feet, hands held up. “Fine. I understand. Calm down, Cora. I get that you’re angry and, hey, wow, I’d probably kill somebody too if I were in your position. I’m not mad or anything. Come on. Just calm down.”

            She watched him painfully, stepping back when he approached her. There was an ache in her eyes as she said, “You’re afraid of me.”

            “I’m not,” said Stiles, shaking her head. “Like, oh my God, ten minutes ago you had your hands down my pants. Would I have let you anywhere near that highly sensitive area if I were afraid of you?” She said nothing, only watching him. “Come  _on_ , Cora. I don’t care about Peter. OK, sure, I’m a little peeved that you lied to us, but hey, you’re a Hale, absolute honesty is not really something I expect from you guys at this point. Although, for the record, if we are, you know, a  _thing_ , we might have to have a conversation about that.”

            She watched him carefully for a long moment, and then stopped, shaking her head, dropping her gaze away from him.

            “But,” he continued, “I think I just figured something out.” He went to the bedside table, grabbing his phone, scrolling through it. “We need to get you back to your brother,” he said. “And we should call Scott too, probably. And Allison, and Isaac, I guess. And we need to get some of that mountain ash stuff, too-”

            “What?” asked Cora, watching him. “What are you talking about? Why?”

            “Because,” he replied, looking up at her. “Don’t you get it? Cora, it’s  _you_. You’re the maiden. You’re the third aspect of the Morrigan.”

            “What?” she demanded. “But the Morrigan only takes boys.”

            “ _Right_ ,” he continued, the panicked frustration rising in his voice. “But it’s not about to sacrifice you, it’s going to transfer your power. Like how Derek saved you by giving you his – your sister is going to take Alpha, and it’ll bring her back…” he trailed off, staring at her, fear in his eyes, “…but it’s going to kill you.”

            In Allison’s house, she and Scott sat around the coffee table in the living room, Isaac curled up on the couch behind them. A laptop computer was open before them, and they both peered at the writing there. “Look at this,” said Allison, frowning at the screen, pointing to a line of words. “This talks about the Threefold Goddess, which is – probably the same thing as the Morrigan, right?”

            “Probably, yeah,” said Scott, leaning over her shoulder. “What does it say?”

            “Here,” she said, pointing to something. “It says that she feeds on the death of soldiers, but it also says something else.” She narrowed her eyes in concentration. “It says…blood. It needs blood.”

            “Well, I mean,” replied Scott, “we kind of already knew that, right?”

            “No,” she continued, shaking her head. “Not just any blood, not from the sacrifices or anything. But from one of their own.” She paused, then turned to look at Scott. “The maiden,” she told him, “doesn’t mean, like, a virgin, or something.”

            “OK,” said Scott, with a slight hint of a grin, “Stiles’ll be happy to hear that.”

            “It means,” said Allison, ignoring his comment, “a relative. Family. It doesn’t mean blood spilt – it means a  _bloodline_. The Morrigan requires a bloodline sacrifice to be completed.”

            Allison and Scott stared at each other. And then Scott began, “Does that mean-” Suddenly, a loud ring came from his pocket. Scott dug his hand down and retrieved his phone, answering it, putting it to his ear. “Stiles?”

            “Get to the animal clinic, right now,” he said, on the other end of the line, he voice hard. “I got it. I know what’s going on.”

            He hung up abruptly, and Scott looked up at his girlfriend, something hovering dark and heavy just above their heads, like a noose tightening around their necks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays!


	11. Artemis

Artemis

"By a virgin's blood the Virgin's wrath must be appeased. Then love yielded to public weal, the father to the king: Iphigenia stood to give her chaste life-blood amid the weeping priests before the altar. Yielding at last, the goddess drew a mist before their eyes, and in the turmoil of the ceremony, the chants and prayers, in place of the princess the tale is told Artemis set a hind. Appeased then by that seemly sacrifice, her divine anger and the ocean’s rage alike subsided, and those thousand ships welcomed the wind abaft and reached at last after much suffering the shores of Troy."

[x.](http://www.theoi.com/Olympios/ArtemisFavour.html#Iphigeneia)

 

            By the time the Jeep turned into the parking lot, Allison’s car was already there, and she and Scott were standing by the side of it, waiting for the others. Stiles haphazardly steered the big car into a space, wheels jutting out beyond the white-lined limits. He hopped out, running around to join the rest of them as Cora stepped out of the car as well. “You OK?” asked Allison, with a flickering, pointed glance up at the full moon.

            Icily, Cora replied, “I’m fine,” and then Scott suddenly sniffed loudly, blinking between her and Stiles.

            “Woah,” he said, a grin splitting out on his face. “Congrats, you guys.”

            “What?” asked Stiles, raising his eyebrows guiltily, blinking, glancing at the girl beside him. “For what?”

            “You know,” replied Scott, grinning knowingly. He shrugged, then looked at Allison, who gave him a very clear look. “Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat, avoiding Cora’s gaze. “You just, uh. You smell like each other. So. _You_ know.”

            Blankly, Stiles blinked at Scott, and Cora shook her head, rubbing her temples. “Good timing, Stiles,” she shot at the boy, her voice stinging.

            “What are you getting mad at me for?” he asked, his voice lowered. “I’m trying to _save_ you, you know.”

            “Somebody’s going to need to save _you_ when my brother shows up-”

            “Oh, right, _like_ he cares who it is you’re throwing around in the sack-”

            “ _Stiles_ ,” she said sharply. “We were _not_ -” she glanced over at Scott and Allison and, as if in explanation, she continued, “I wasn’t throwing him around-”

            “Right,” said Allison, with a small, awkward smile. “Just – let’s focus on why you called us here, OK?”

            As if on cue, another car slit down the street, turning into the parking low, the Camaro low and dark and quiet as it stopped beside them. Derek stepped out, standing, Stiles thought gratefully, upwind. He strode towards them, his eyes shining slightly in the darkness. As he approached them, Stiles could’ve sworn he saw Derek’s upper lip twitch slightly, as if sensing a particularly distasteful scent. Ruefully, he didn’t meet Derek’s gaze, deliberately standing a good foot and a half away from Cora.

            “Derek,” said Cora, nodding at him. “Hope we didn’t wake you.”

            He looked at her, but there was nothing in his expression. “Why am I here?” he asked.

            “For her,” said Stiles, holding his hand out, gesturing towards Cora. She glanced at him, and then batted his hand away.

            “There’s a lot you need to know,” said Cora, her eyes sliding across the dark parking lot around them. “I thought…I could keep you out of it. Keep you safe.” She paused, looking back to him, and the sweeping height of her cheekbones, the breadth of her lips, her dark brows. It occurred to Derek for not the first time how profoundly she looked like their mother. “That worked,” she added. “But, if Stiles is right…” she looked at the other boy, and Derek had to glance away, pretending he didn’t see the electricity when their gazes met, “…then I need help keeping _myself_ safe.”

            Derek’s eyes travelled over to the animal clinic. The windows were all dark. “And what?” he asked. “You think Deaton can do that?”

            “No,” said Stiles, shaking his head, before Cora could answer. “That’s not why we’re here.”

            “Hey,” said Scott, scooting forward, squeezing in between Stiles and Cora. “We found something too. Something about the Morrigan – there was something in the Argent bestiary, something about the third sacrifice.”

            “We know already,” replied Stiles, his voice hard. Addressing Derek again, he said, “To complete the spell, there _is_ no third male sacrifice. They’re going to take Alpha from Cora, and it’ll kill her. That’s what they’ve been trying to do this whole time, the Morrigan is – she’s _your family_. Don’t you get it? _She’s_ what’s coming, _she’s_ the power about to hit Beacon Hill.”

            Derek stared at Stiles, a deep crease of confusion in his brow. “What are you talking about?”

            “ _Laura_ ,” said Stiles forcefully, arms splayed out, as if it were obvious. “Your sister. The Morrigan is bringing her back, and they’re going to use Cora to do it.”

            There was nothing for a moment. In the distance, a raven crowed. Derek tore his eyes away from Stiles and looked at his younger sister, and Stiles suddenly realized what the look on his face meant.

            “Oh,” he murmured, retreating. “Oh.” Turning to Cora, he muttered, “You didn’t tell him?”

            She stared at Derek right in the face, the tightness of her lips answering his question. Neither of them said anything, and Stiles had to look away, a moment so intimate it felt indecent to watch, as Derek stared at his sister, disappointment and fear mingling on his face. A breeze swept around them, swirling the red and orange and yellow leaves at their feet, and the hair at the back of Derek’s neck stood up as Cora refused to look away.

            Gently, Cora said, “You buried her.”

            Stiffly, Derek shrugged. “Not well enough, I guess,” he said, his voice cold.

            “It’s not your fault,” she said, shaking her head. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you. _Every_ thing is your fault, Derek, and it’s exhausting to have to try and keep you alive when you think you _shouldn’t_ be.”

            “Cora-” began Derek, but she shook her head forcefully, cutting him off.

            “You’re a terrible Beta, Derek,” she said loudly. “You were even worse as Alpha.” She moved forward suddenly, staring up at Derek, her face hardly level with his chest. Reaching out, she clasped onto his jacket, holding tightly onto him, refusing to bow her gaze. “But before any of that,” she continued, “you are my _brother_. And if I could keep you from getting hurt – no matter how, in whatever way – then I would.”

            She stared at him, clenching her jaw.

            And then she let go of him, and stepped back. She tucked her hair behind her ear. “That’s why I didn’t tell you,” she finished. “I’ve had enough of seeing the people I love get hurt.”

            Derek said nothing, only watched her painfully.

            And then, glancing at Stiles and the others, she murmured, “Let’s go,” and headed towards the animal clinic; immediately, Allison and Scott followed her, Scott only sparing a small glance for Derek. Trying to look at Derek without letting the other man notice, Stiles began to turn and walk away, before Derek stopped him.

            “Stiles.”

            He stopped. His heart felt like it slowed down a little, and then he turned around, clearing his throat. Derek stood there, watching him with dangerous, wolfish eyes. “Uh,” he began, “hi.”

            Cocking his head slightly, Derek gestured towards him. “Come here.”

            “Um,” continued Stiles, as if considering it, “how about no?”

            Derek rolled his eyes and strode forward. Stiles flinched, although he could not imagine what Derek could do to him. From somewhere deep within his mind, one of the earliest memories he had of Derek rose to the surface. Pale and suffering and _I’ll rip out your throat. With my teeth_.

            To Stiles’s utter surprise, Derek reached out and took hold of him by the chin, turning his head, narrowing his eyes, as if inspecting his jaw. “Oh, Stiles,” he sighed, and there was something in his voice that Stiles didn’t think he’d ever heard.

            “What?” he asked, almost out of fear. He tried to tug away from Derek’s grip slightly, but Derek didn’t seem to notice.

            With his index finger, Derek tapped Stiles’s jaw. “Did Cora give you those?”

            “Give me-?” His hands fluttered up to his face self-consciously, running along his jawline. “Oh my God, are you asking me if your sister gave me _hickeys?_ ”

            “They’re bite marks,” said Derek derisively. “It’s a wolf thing. I’m surprised you don’t already know this.”

            “Bite marks?” repeated Stiles incredulously, and Derek finally let him go. He ran his hands over his face in shock. “Did you just say a _wolf thing?_ ”

            “It’s called snout-biting,” answered Derek, looking past him, at his sister and the others heading into the building. “We – especially females – sometimes use it to mark our mates.”

            Stiles gaped at him. “Mark your _what?_ ”

            Derek smiled emptily at Stiles, and Stiles could tell that he would be amused if he weren’t nursing the injury of Cora’s words. “Welcome to the pack,” he said quietly, patting Stiles on the shoulder, and then he strode past him, following Cora and the others.

            After a moment, Stiles hurried after him. Scott and Allison entered first, very carefully. Cora moved, placing herself protectively beside Stiles, who glanced guiltily at Derek. If she noticed, she made no indication. Scott called, “Doctor Deaton?” and, after a few seconds, the man appeared behind the counter.

            He smiled at them, so benevolently. “Can I help you?” he asked.

            Scott, Allison, and Derek didn’t give a second glance before they passed behind the counter, heading into the back room, where they had spent so much time, and learned so much. Once they had all passed, Deaton paused to make sure the gate of mountain ash closed behind them. Cora took Stiles’s hand as Deaton smiled at them, heading back to the rest of them.

            As soon as he was out of sight, Stiles reached out and tugged at the small, low gate, hooking it open. Glancing behind them, Cora whispered, “Are you sure-?”

            “Pretty sure,” replied Stiles under his breath. “Even if I’m not, I thought you didn’t like feeling trapped.”

            She watched him, almost frowning. “I don’t,” she said quietly.

            He looked at her for a second, and then he leaned forward, taking her face in his hands, and kissed her on the lips. Then he pulled away. “By the way,” he began pointedly, gesturing at the marks along his jaw, “we’re gonna have to talk about these.”

            She actually smiled, a blush rising to her cheeks. “I thought you said you’d like to be in my pack.”

            “Well, _sure_ , but-” he broke off, looking behind her. She turned around quickly to see Derek standing there, watching them, unimpressed.

            “Are you going to join us?” he asked, one eyebrow elegantly arched in judgment. “Or would you like a couple minutes of privacy first?”

            “Hey,” responded Stiles, glaring at him, one hand defensively on Cora’s arm. “It’d be a little more than a _couple minutes_ , alright, buddy-”

            Shaking her head, Cora took Stiles’s hand, tugging him into the room with the others. “So,” said Deaton, smiling at Stiles from across the reflective metal of the examination table. “I understand you think you know what’s going on.”

            Stiles stared at him, then made a face. Cora squeezed his hand slightly, giving him a look, bringing him back to the moment. “Yeah, right,” he said, coming to the table, between Cora and Scott, “I do, actually. I’m, like. Ninety percent sure.” He glanced around, eyes flickering to Scott, Cora, then Derek. “Like. Eighty-five. Ish. No less than seventy.”

            He said nothing more. Allison exchanged glances with Scott and then asked, “Do you want to tell us? Or should we just stand here waiting?”

            “Look,” said Stiles, leaning forward. “The Morrigan is not a goddess, it’s a spell, and it’s going to be used to bring back the Alpha of the Hale pack. Laura, Laura Hale, Derek and Cora’s sister.”

            Deaton only watched him, brown eyes big and perceptive. And then slowly, he nodded. “Derek,” he said, glancing over to the other man. “When you buried her, you didn’t bind Laura with wolfsbane rope, did you?”

            Derek glanced at him, then cautiously looked to his sister. “No,” he replied. “Not when I buried her the second time.”

            Scott blinked, leaning in. “What?” he asked. “Does that have something to do with this?”

            “It’s just a tradition in our family,” said Derek, but Deaton shook his head and cut him off.

            “Traditions are developed and followed for a _reason_ , Derek,” he said, his voice hard. “By _not_ binding her, you left her vulnerable.”

            Scott looked at Derek uncomfortably. “Oh, man. I mean. Our bad.”

            “Vulnerable?” repeated Stiles incredulously. “After everything this psychotic ghost-witch-Morrigan _whatever_ has done to us, you’re calling _her_ vulnerable?”

            Deaton shook his head, refusing to listen to Stiles. “She’s little more than a spirit,” he said heatedly. “Even the completion of sacrifices won’t restore her completely. How is it that you expect her to wield this much power?”

            Resolutely, Stiles said, “Alpha transference.” Addressing Derek, he added, “Like what you did, except more extreme. Something that would suck the life out of a previous Alpha, in order to power a new one.”

            “What?” asked Scott, but Deaton nodded, considering this.

            “The way Talia ascended to head of the family,” he said lowly, “and her mother before her.”

            “Right,” replied Stiles, nodding. “But Laura never did that, she became Alpha because she was next in line after her mom was killed. That’s why your mother isn’t involved, because she’s already used that ritual to get her power in the first place.”

            “The anchor,” said Cora suddenly, as if it had just come to her. Everyone’s gazes snapped to her, and she stared up at them all, her eyes widening. Only focused on Derek, she said, “Mom. The mother of the Triple Goddess, she’s the anchor. Laura is the crone, a vessel for power from the conduit.” She stared at her brother, mouth hanging open. “From me.”

            “Laura?” demanded Derek, turning to look at Deaton as if for confirmation, reaching out and placing a firm, protective hand on Cora’s shoulder, gripping her tightly. “Laura wants to use _Cora_ as the final sacrifice?”

            “No,” said Deaton, shaking his head resolutely. “The Morrigan takes soldiers, not daughters-”

            “You _would_ say that, though,” said Stiles, his voice slicing through the darkness. Deaton looked up at him, a concerned crease in his brow. A muscle in Stiles’s jaw jumped, and Cora could all but hear him gritting his teeth.

            Scott reached out and took hold of Stiles’s arm. “Stiles,” he said cautiously. “I don’t know what you’re implying exactly, but-”

            “Yes you do,” said Stiles bluntly, tearing his arm away from Scott’s touch. “I think you know exactly what I’m implying because I’m not even friggin’ implying it anymore, I’m just saying it.” He stared at Deaton, refusing to look away. The other man blinked, then straightened up, his face expressionless. The light that hung over the table no longer illuminated his face. Stiles cocked his head, narrowing his eyes only slightly. “Don’t move,” he said, voice hard. “I’d say the odds are pretty well in our favor. It’s five-to-one, and we’ve got two Alphas, _and_ an emissary, just like you.”

            Cora said, “Derek,” and Derek reached out, clasping a hand around Deaton’s arm, preventing him from taking another step away.

            “We don’t have time for this,” said Deaton urgently. “If this _is_ Laura Hale, then tonight would be the night she’d use to return. It’s the winter solstice, the time at which the barrier between the living and dead is narrow, almost nonexistent-”

            Stiles said, “OK, sure, whatever. I’m not buying it, and I’m not done yet.” He leaned forward, across the table. “Here’s the thing that we didn’t factor in,” he continued. “Everybody thought this all got started after Peter was killed, when the other pack got here, by the time Cora and Derek found the first sacrifice on the Nemeton. But it’s been going on much longer than that. Allison, Isaac, and I all saw something before that. These things that started haunting us, though, it wasn’t just anything, it was family. It was _our_ family. And Laura – the Morrigan – can’t be brought back without her family.”

            “That much we know,” said Deaton, glancing at Derek. “But you’re misinterpreting-”

            “You told us,” he said loudly, interrupting the other man, “about this _darkness_ inside of us. Something that would be there every day. That gives us the perfect excuse to just shrug off these visions, or hallucinations, whatever they are. I’ve been haunted since then, but it’s not that. It’s not the darkness showing up, it has nothing to do with that, you _lied_ to us because you knew that the Morrigan would manifest – like you said before – _in the context of the dead_.”

            “No,” said Deaton, shaking his head firmly. “I did not lie to any of you.”

            Cora brought her hands down, hard, on the table, and a loud clanging resounded. “Don’t interrupt him,” she hissed.

            Stiles glanced at her, blinking, his rhythm obviously thrown. “Wow,” he murmured, with a dopey little smile at her. “That was. Like. That was hot.”

            “ _Stiles_ ,” said Derek loudly, and Stiles instantly shook his head, staring across the table.

            “Right, right, right. OK. Yeah. Anyway.” He cleared his throat. “The thing is,” he continued, “the same time we went under, Derek transferred his power to Cora. And when he did that, she became the Alpha. Weak, sure, because Peter thought _he_ was the Alpha, but that was enough. That was the opportunity to start the spell. It just needed somebody to get it started, somebody loyal to the Hale line. No! Not even. Somebody loyal to Hale Alphas, _natural_ Hale Alphas.”

            Cora stared at Deaton warily, standing straight up behind Stiles. “Somebody like the emissary who served my mother.”

            Glancing down at the table, his brow heavy and brooding, Derek murmured, “Peter knew. He told me we needed a new emissary.”

            Deaton tried to tug his arm away from Derek, but Derek held on tightly. He reached up, trying to pry fingers off of his arm, and there was more venom in his voice than any of them had ever heard as he spat, “You all but already have one. Derek, let _go_ of me.”

            “What does that mean?” asked Cora sharply, and Deaton’s looked at her for a moment, and then his eyes slid meaningfully to Stiles. She looked over at him, eyes wide, and then she bared her teeth, leaning across the table. “Don’t play games with us-!”

            “I’m not,” replied Deaton loudly, refusing to bow from her vicious gaze. “An emissary is a part of your pack. _Clearly_ , you’ve marked him as yours.”

            Self-consciously, Stiles’s hand flitted to his jaw, and Scott asked, “ _What?_ She _what?_ ”

            Lowly, glancing towards Scott, Cora said, “He’s not ours. Not in practice, not yet.”

            “Practice?” echoed Deaton dubiously. “What part of Alpha politics seems _practical_ to you, Cora?”

            “Look!” said Stiles loudly, cutting them off. “That doesn’t change anything! Do you see any other druids around here capable of pulling off a spell like that?”

            “Other than you,” shot back Deaton, “no, I don’t.”

            “Hold on,” said Allison, peering between them. “The other pack. They brought their emissary with them.”

            “Grace turned her,” replied Derek, without glancing at her. “Wolves aren’t meant to work as druids.”

            A crease in her brow, Allison asked, “Can you do that? Turn your emissary?”

            “You can,” replied Deaton, looking at her. “But, like Derek says, it weakens them. A druid may be able to redirect mystical power, but they’re still humans. Werewolves who also act as their packs’ emissaries have a shadow of the kind of strength they would without the bite.”

            “Then why do it at all?” asked Cora, her voice hard.

            Deaton turned back to look at her, his brown eyes wide and damp. “Because,” he said, “it’s much easier to kill a human than a werewolf.”

            From behind them, a rich, quiet voice filled the room. They all whipped around, eyes widening at the woman standing in the doorway behind them.

            “True,” said Rosemary, grinning, baring her teeth. “But then again, I could kill anything.”

            Instantly, Derek let go of Deaton, and he, Scott, and Cora all dropped defensively, their fangs and claws elongating. Behind Rosemary, the other Beta, Jaz, appeared, grinning at them, eyes a bright golden yellow, sharp against her dark skin.

            Rosemary hissed and launched herself forward; Cora instantly moved, tearing forward with her claws, but the taller woman ducked, dodging past Cora, and landed her claws firmly in Derek’s forearm. Cora spun around, howling protectively; the other Beta launched herself at Scott, preventing him from helping Derek.

            Before Cora could move forward, about to rip Rosemary apart, a hand caught her hair, pulling her backwards sharply. Still wrenching at her long hair, Sam leaned over Cora’s face, grinning. “Missed me?” she asked.

            Suddenly, something hit Sam hard on the side of the head, and she shrieked, thrown to the ground with the force of the blow from a huge glass jar, which shattered into pieces on collision.

            Stiles, still holding on to the metal top of the jug, looked down at Sam breathlessly. “Don’t touch my mate,” he said breathlessly, holding the jagged edge of glass down at the girl, “ _bitch_.”

             He glanced up to see Cora gaping at him, fangs gone, eyes wide, profoundly human.

            “Hey, hey, hey,” he said quickly, reaching out to touch her hand, claws gone, “don’t put those away just y-”

            It happened very slowly. Cora’s gaze flickered behind Stiles, the struggling noise of the room silencing as Grace’s stark red eyes met hers. Grace’s arm shot out, faster than Cora’s by mere milliseconds, and she wrapped her arm around Stiles’s throat, pulling him backwards, off his feet; the look of fear in his eyes shot straight to Cora’s heart, and she could not take a breath, unable to even scream – and then real, physical pain shot down her spine like a lightning strike, and her eyes went bright red. She clattered to the ground, gasping for breath, claws digging into the cement floor of the clinic, a spot on the back of her neck burning as if it were on fire. The sharp, tickling sensation was so intense that her eyes closed and she thought she could smell the acrid stink of smoke, panic rising in her lungs. Her brother shouted her name, still fighting with Rosemary; Scott threw Jaz to the ground when he saw Stiles in Grace’s grip, but she dug her claws into his ankle. Before he could turn to fight her, Allison dropped, shoving a knee hard into the werewolf’s back, piercing the soft flesh in between her shoulder blades with sharp, long knives. Jaz roared in pain.

            “Let her go,” said Grace sharply, her arm tightening around Stiles’s neck. He floundered uselessly, struggling against her grip. Grace gazed dangerously at Allison for a long moment, color flooding into Stiles’s face, his glassy eyes rolling.

            Allison tore her knives out of the Beta’s back and got to her feet, glaring at Grace with pure, dripping hatred in her eyes. Derek glanced between Grace and Rosemary, then darted down to where Cora was, hands and knees on the floor. She winced away from him when he placed a hand on her back, and instantly he retracted it, unable to bear causing her any more pain. Then she lifted her head, baring her teeth at Grace. Derek helped her to her feet.

            Just as Stiles’s knees began to buckle, Grace let him go, removing her arm from the grip around his throat. He fell to the ground, coughing hoarsely, and Scott went to his side, kneeling beside his friend.

            Grace only stared at Cora and Derek. Lowly, she said, “You keep your hands off the druid. Do you understand? You will _not_ interfere.”

            “Grace,” began Derek, and there was little more than a plea in his voice, “if you think for one second that Laura would _want_ this-”

            “Laura doesn’t want anything,” Grace shot back shortly. “She can’t. She’s dead.” They stared at her, and then she took a step forward, holding out her hands. “But we can _fix that_. Why are you so against me? Wouldn’t you do anything for her, Derek? Wouldn’t you give up _everything_ for family?” Her eyes snapping from Derek to Cora, she implored, “You said you’d help me. Think of your sister. Think of what she could _teach_ you.”

            Bluntly, Cora said, “She can’t teach me anything if I’m dead.”

            Grace stared at her, mouth hanging slightly open. Then her gaze slit across the room, to where Deaton stood, out of the light. She swept her hair back and purred, “What have you been telling them, Doctor?”

            “Nothing,” replied Deaton, very simply. “Do you really think I’m responsible for this, Grace?”

            “If you’re not,” she snarled, “you should be. What would Talia say?”

            “My mother,” said Cora loudly, before Deaton could reply, “would say that there’s a natural order to things. And that power is only meant to flow in one direction.”

            “You’re _Hales_ ,” she said, her voice heavy. “You can do whatever you want with power.”

            “Grace,” said Deaton. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with, do you?”

            Her eyes flickered from Deaton to Rosemary, then to Cora and Derek. “I know,” she whispered, her voice very quiet, “that I am so close to getting her back. I would do _anything_ -”

            “If you really gave a damn about their sister,” said Scott suddenly, still supporting Stiles, on the floor, “then you wouldn’t hurt them. She wouldn’t want that.”

            Leering down at Scott and Stiles, haunches raised, Grace hissed, “Don’t you dare try to tell me what she would want-”

            “Why not?” demanded Allison, clutching her knives; Grace seemed almost surprised, her eyes flickering around to her, and Allison did not bow her gaze. “I don’t know who you are and I didn’t know Cora and Derek’s sister, but it seems like you’re a lot more concerned with what _you_ want than anybody else.”

            “Do you really want Laura back, Grace?” asked Cora, standing up straight, facing Grace, as if their words had strengthened her. “Or do you want the power and status you lost when she left you?”

            With a roar, Grace launched herself at Cora; Derek immediately moved to protect her, but Cora threw him aside, grappling with Grace, claws slashing, their scarlet eyes mirroring one another’s.

            And then, abruptly, Rosemary said, “It’s not him.”

            Cora tore into Grace’s cheek, blood smeared across her face. Grace backed off, staring at her emissary. “What?” she demanded.

            “I don’t understand,” muttered Rosemary, looking lost, staring at Deaton. He only watched her warily, and finally she tore her gaze away, looking back to her Alpha. “It’s not him,” she repeated. “I can feel it. He’s not the one redirecting the power of the spell.”

            Grace stared at her. “How can that be?” she demanded heatedly. “You said-”

            “Allison!” croaked Stiles, his voice still hoarse. “Now!”

            Diving to the bag she’d put down, Allison retrieved something, and Jaz’s eyes widened and she began to throw herself at Allison, howling, but then a blindingly bright light filled the dully lit room, and Grace’s pack hissed in pain, covering their eyes. Allison stuck her knives into Jaz’s shoulders as she buckled over, and Scott, who, like Cora and Derek, had protected his eyes, reached out, jabbing his claws into Grace’s ankles, bringing her down. Cora’s elbow collided with Sam’s face, and Derek threw Rosemary to the ground.

            Grace stumbled away from them, clutching her face. When she looked up at them, she bared her teeth, growling, blinking furiously, vision hazy and indistinct.

            Cora moved forward and threw Grace, hard, onto the floor. Grace slowly began to push herself up, but Cora kicked her in the face, keeping her down. She looked up at Cora with utter revulsion, blood staining her teeth and lips. Moving forward, Cora stood over her, and for a moment it seemed her clawed fingers were swinging below Grace’s jaw, to tear a head off her spine, but before Derek could even call his sister’s name, Cora’s hand trickled down past Grace’s neck.

            Taking a fist of Grace’s collar, she tore it down to expose a patch of skin above her heart, where raised white lines outlined the mark of the Morrigan. Baring her teeth threateningly, Cora lowered her fingers, pressing her claws into the skin of the tattoo.

             “Do you know what this is, Grace?” she whispered. “Do you _really_ know?”

            Grace stared up at Cora. And then she opened her mouth and spit blood onto Cora’s face.

            “It’s a _brand_ ,” hissed Cora, through gritted teeth, refusing to wipe the blood which dripped down her face, into her eyes. “It’s a claim. It’s _my family_. You belong to us.”

            “To you?” Grace hissed. “To a family built on the blood of Omegas? To a family which is practically extinct? I don’t owe anything to you, or your pathetic excuse for a pack.”

            Grace lifted her hand, placed it above Cora’s. And then, with a roaring growl, she pressed Cora’s claws, hard, into her skin, and raked them across the mark, breaking the symbol.

            “I don’t want Laura back so I can join your pack,” she spat, her lip curled in an ugly, sneering snarl, “I want her to join _mine_.”

            Rosemary moved forward, tearing Cora away from Grace, and she and Jaz took their Alpha and, red eyes still staring at Cora, they disappeared.

            There was silence. In the corner of the room, Sam glanced back at the doorway, then at Cora, who met her gaze without bowing. She looked as if she were about to say something, and then she shook her head.

            Lowly, Cora asked, “You really agree with her?”

            Sam stared at Cora blankly. And then she said, “I think that if it wasn’t for your family, your sister wouldn’t be dead in the first place.” Her eyes slid, like stone, over to Derek, and she said, “If it wasn’t for your family, none of you would ever have gotten hurt.”

            Allison glanced back at Derek, whose eyes flickered bright, icy blue, but he made no noise, he face pale

            “You were the one,” continued Sam, her voice hard, “who said you were strong with or without your family. Your sister deserves a chance to find that out as well.”

            “So what?” demanded Cora. “You’re going to kill me? You’re going to watch me die?”

            “ _No_ ,” said Sam, shaking her head. “Cora.” She stared up with dark eyes, lips slightly parted. “Not you.”

            Following the rest of her pack, she swept out of the room.

            Outside, Grace ran ahead of her Betas, breath pumping hard, in the trees, reaching the front of the burnt-out house. Blood stained her shirt, running down her chest from the wound that broke the tattoo. Eyes sweeping along the charred wood and stone, she shouted, “ _Laura_.”

            There was silence.

            And then the door to the house, huge and red, creaked slightly, and a figure slipped out onto the front porch. Grace stared up at her. The woman before the door smiled.

            Grace strode forward imploringly and began, “They know too much. It’s a matter of time before they figure out how to stop it. If you would just _tell_ me-”

            A wisp of smoke, and the woman disappeared; Grace stopped. A raven cawed, and the full moon shone down on them. Grace glanced around her, and when she turned around again, the woman was there, so close to her, and Grace made a small sound of shock as something slit into the cavity of her stomach, sharp talons sliding through organs and viscous internal matter.

            Laura, face still puffy and bloodless, like a corpse, black veins running up her neck, coloring her lips, leaned forward, putting her mouth beside Grace’s ear. Her eyes were a pure white, with no iris or pupil. Her fingers flickered around the line of Grace’s jaw, the small marks there, indication of a claim lain years ago.

            She whispered, “You always were too ambitious for your own good,” and tore her claws out of Grace’s body, leaving her on the cold, dark ground, disappearing like smoke into the night.

            In the back room of the clinic, Scott slowly helped his friend to his feet. Cora stood there, anger in the clench of her jaw, and Derek watched her but did not reach out to touch her. Allison collected her weapons, wiping the blood off her knives with her jacket.

            “See?” said Scott, relieved. Nodding at Deaton, he said “I knew he had nothing to do with this.”

            “It could be a trick,” said Derek, scrutinizing the doctor. “Meant to throw us off.”

            “No,” added Stiles throatily, shaking his head. “No. I…believe them.”

            “Why?” asked Allison. “They just _attacked_ us.”

            “No,” said Stiles, shaking his head, lost in thought. “No, no, I was…”

            He trailed off. Before he said more, Deaton spoke. “What I don’t understand,” he said, “is how they got in here in the first place. Half the building is made of mountain ash.”

            Glancing at Stiles, Cora said, “I wanted it open. In case we needed a quick way out.”

            “But,” said Deaton, raising an eyebrow, “you couldn’t touch it.”

            “No,” said Stiles, still shaking his head. “I opened it.” He looked up at them, eyes wide, stricken. “Cora,” he said, taking an unsteady step towards her. “God, no, I was wrong-”

            He reached out towards her, and then, suddenly, with a terrible heaving sound, a stomach’s worth of blood and thick mucus and viscous, awful black goo came from his mouth, retching onto the ground, and it did not stop; the blood, black-red in the dull light, dripped from his lips and teeth, and his body heaved and wracked. Stiles fell to the ground, eyes rolling back in his head, body shaking uncontrollably. And then he stopped moving completely, the heady stench of death lingering in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thus the end begins!
> 
> Happy Holidays :)


	12. Kalma

Kalma

"Lo! thy brother too has perished,  
Dead he lies within the forest,  
Manalainen's trumpet called him;  
Home return and do him honor,  
Lay him in the lap of Kalma."

"Lo! thy sister too has perished,  
Perished in the crystal fountain,  
Where the waters flow in beauty,  
Like a silver serpent winding  
Through the valley to the ocean;  
Home return and do her honor,  
Lay her in the lap of Kalma."

"Wrap her in the robes of ermine,  
Tie her hands with silken ribbon,  
Take her to the grave of ages,  
Lay her in the lap of Kalma.  
Bury her with songs of mourning,  
Let the singers chant my sorrow;  
Cannot leave the fields of battle  
While Untamo goes unpunished,  
Fell destroyer of my people."

[x.](http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/kveng/kvrune36.htm)

 

            In the back of Allison’s car, speeding down the road, Cora put her fingers desperately to Stiles’s neck, searching for a pulse. “He’s not breathing,” she said, the fear frozen in her voice.

            “We’re almost at the hospital,” said Scott, sitting in the passenger seat beside Allison, twisted around to watch his best friend. “Just another couple minutes, he’ll be fine. He’s gotta be, he’ll be fine.” Turning to Allison, he hissed, “Go _faster_.” Without replying, she pressed down on the gas, her eyes focused on the darkness before her, the mist coming in dense and wet.

            Cora pressed her hands against Stiles’s chest, stricken. “Come on,” she murmured urgently, kneeling over him, swaying and jolting with the movement of the car. She pumped down hard above his heart, and then took his head in her hands, tilting it backwards and then lowered her mouth down to his. He tasted of blood and bile and something sickly sweet, something she could not identify but which burned her lips like fire. Whipping away, she wiped her mouth with one hand, and the tingling burning intensified. “ _Dammit_ ,” she swore, turning her head, coughing aside. “Wolfsbane.” Eyes watering with the stinging pain, she looked at him again, and whispered, “Come on, Stiles. Come on.” The moisture in her eyes spilled over, and she closed them tightly, refusing to allow her tears to drop onto his face. “I didn’t – _waste_ – all this time on you-”

            “Cora,” said Allison, glancing back at her through the rearview mirror, “don’t stop. We’re almost there, just keep going for a few more minutes.”

            She nodded, jaw clenched tightly, and she pressed her hands against his chest again, pumping hard. There was a cracking sound so sharp that even Allison heard it, and Scott said, “Cora, stop, you’re gonna hurt him-!”

            “Scott, _stop_ ,” said Allison tightly. “A few broken ribs are nothing compared to the alternative.”

              Cora lowered her mouth to Stiles’s again, giving him three long breaths, and then lifted her mouth away again, wincing in pain, wiping her lips. “What is it?” asked Scott; he could hear his heartbeat in his ears, almost in tune to Cora’s own frightened, erratic beat.

            “Wolfsbane,” she breathed, pointing at the blackness around Stiles’s mouth. “But I’m OK, I’m OK, I’m OK, just keep going.”

            Suddenly, a loud siren began to wail, and red and blue lights flashed behind them. The car began to slow and, panicked, Scott shouted, “Don’t _stop_ , Allison!” but she pulled over abruptly, knuckles white on the wheel. “ _Allison!_ ” began Scott, but then she cut him off.

            “It’s his dad,” she said harshly.

            Scott stared at her for a second, then twisted around to look out the back of the car; without a second thought, he threw himself out the door, running back to where the Sheriff was just exiting out of the squad car. “Scott?” asked the Sheriff, squinting through the mist. “Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”

            Breathlessly, Scott said, “It’s Stiles, he’s in the back, he needs to get to the hospital _right now_ , please, he doesn’t have much time-”

            The Sheriff gaped at Scott, and then glanced towards the car before him. Then he nodded, and got back into the police car. “Go,” he said. “I’ve got you, go.”

            The sirens went back on, and Scott dashed back to the car and got in, slamming the door behind him; the Sheriff’s car took off before them, leading the way. Allison followed him, and Cora continued to give Stiles CPR, even as the tips of her fingers tingled and she could no longer feel her lips.

            As soon as they made it into the hospital, Melissa appeared, eyes wide when she saw Stiles’s prone, unmoving body on the gurney. Before she darted after him, she stopped and grabbed her son’s arm and, lowly, she asked, “What happened?”

            “I don’t know,” replied Scott, eyes wide in fear, his mouth open and lip trembling noticeably, “I don’t know, he was just there and then he threw up blood and that black goo stuff and-”

            “Blood?” she asked, holding on to him. “He vomited blood?”

            “Yes,” said Cora, moving forward, unsteady on her feet; Allison reached out and took her arm, supporting her. “He stopped breathing, I don’t think he has a pulse.”

            “We’re prepping the defibrillator right now,” she told Cora, eyes wide and honest.

            Scott reached out, his hand shaking. “Mom.” She stopped, looking at her son, taking his hands. Tears filled Scott’s eyes, overflowing, dripping down his face. “Mom,” he said, his voice choked, “make sure he’s OK.”

            Melissa nodded, and pulled her son close to her, holding him tightly. And then she let him go and left, heading back to where Stiles still lay.

            The rest of the ER was eerily calm, and as they stood there waiting for him, it seemed quiet and still. Behind them, Sheriff Stilinski leaned against the wall, hand held over his mouth. He said nothing for a moment, and then looked up at the three of them.

            “What happened?” he asked quietly.

            Scott wiped his face, and Allison held onto him. “We don’t know,” said Cora. “That black stuff just came from his mouth, and then he stopped breathing.”

            The Sheriff glanced back down where Melissa had left. He hesitated for a long moment, then, painfully, he asked, “Did he do this to himself?”

            “What?” asked Cora, shocked at the question. “No. Of course not. How would he even-?”

            “I don’t know,” he said gruffly, shaking his head. “I had to ask. I don’t know – I don’t know what’s been wrong with him, lately.” He blinked, sniffing slightly, and Cora stood there alarmed, awkwardly unsure of how to deal with the display of emotions.

            Derek appeared, slipping in and running forward to meet Cora, and something seemed to change in the Sheriff’s expression when he saw the other man.

            “Scott,” he said, shuffling away from the Hale siblings. “This was – he’s not sick. This isn’t an illness, this is some-” he glanced at the Hales, and lowered his voice, “-some crazy _werewolf_ thing. Right? Is that what this is?”

            “Yeah,” replied Scott, nodding. “We don’t know what yet, I’m sorry, but-”

            “Fine,” said the Sheriff, tearing his gaze away from Scott, staring down the hall. “Fine. Listen to me, Scott. I know he’s your best friend and I know how close you two are. But if this-” he broke off, clenching his jaw, then turned back to Scott. “If this is what happens when he’s around all of this,” he said, his voice very low, “all of _you_ – then _don’t_. Then stay away from him. Let him be. All right?”

            Scott stared at him, eyes still wet. Confused and hurt, he began, “But – I, I can help him, as soon as we-”

            “Scott,” interrupted the Sheriff loudly, shaking his head, holding up a hand. “I need to be with my son now.” He paused, lifting his eyes to meet Scott’s heavily. “My _son_. He’s all I-” he broke off, glancing away, teeth clenched.

            Without another word, he headed away, to find Stiles in the ER. Scott reached out and said, “Mister Stilinski-” but before he could continue, the Sheriff whipped around, staring him in the eyes, red and scared and full of tears.

            “He’s _human_ , Scott,” he whispered, watching them. “He’s not like you, he doesn’t heal like you, he doesn’t have – he doesn’t have claws and fangs and whatever the hell else. He’s a _kid_. And if being around any of you puts him in danger then you should just – you should all just…”

            He broke off, looking around at them all. Derek held on to Cora, but it seemed more for his benefit than hers, as she watched the Sheriff darkly, almost angrily. Allison stood behind Scott, shocked at the Sheriff’s words. And then he shook his head and turned around, heading away from them.

            None of them said anything. Scott didn’t move for a moment, then turned around, face contorted into a silent sob. Allison immediately took him in her arms, holding him tightly. Cora didn’t look away from the spot where the Sheriff had been standing, her face pale but expressionless. Derek still held her by the arm; he let out a deep exhalation, then his hand slid downwards to meet hers, clasping their fingers together. She allowed him to hold her hand loosely. The only indication of her emotion an odd, irregular blink in her eyes, she said, “He’s the third sacrifice, isn’t he?”

            “He can’t be,” said Allison quietly, pulling slightly away from Scott but still holding him. “The Morrigan requires a bloodline sacrifice, there’s no way he qualifies.”

            Her voice harsh and bearing down on Allison, Cora replied, “He coughed up the black slime, it’s _taking him_ -”

            “No,” insisted Allison. “The bestiary said-”

            “Then the bestiary is _wrong_!” shouted Cora, and then she broke her gaze, pressing her lips together tightly, her eyes fluttering shut. There was a silence, even deeper due to the sudden dulling of sound around them, people trying not to stare at her outburst.

            Derek squeezed Cora’s hand, although she did not look up at him. “She’s right,” he murmured to his sister. “This isn’t how sacrifices are made. If he were a sacrifice, we’d be finding him on the Nemeton, not rushing him to the hospital.”

            “He knew something,” muttered Scott, wiping his eyes. None of them spoke, looking at the boy as he sniffled piteously, then looked up at them with abject anguish. “Didn’t you hear him? He said he was wrong. He must’ve figured it out, and the Morrigan wasn’t going to let him tell us what it was.”

            “The Morrigan,” said Allison, glancing away from Scott, her hand still softly stroking the back of his neck. “You mean Laura.”

            “Laura wouldn’t do this,” said Derek, without a beat.

            Without looking back at her brother, Cora said simply, “Peter killed his own niece to become Alpha. Don’t act like our family isn’t capable of destruction.”

            Derek whipped his hand away from Cora, retracting it as if he’d been burned. Despite himself, his eyes glinted blue, and he demanded, “You think I don’t know that, Cora? All I’ve managed to do since she died is _destroy things_ -”

            Turning to him, words punctuated by a low snarl, Cora said, “Shut  _up_ , Derek. You realize he’s dying, right? And our family is responsible. Right now, you don’t get to think about anything but helping him. Neither of us do.”

             Eyes glinting blue - Allison glanced around nervously - Derek demanded quietly, “What do you _want_ me to do?”

            Cora watched her brother for a moment, then dropped her gaze back to Allison and Scott. “Leave,” she said, addressing Derek. “Find Laura. She’s got to be out there now, waiting.” She paused, the steel look in her eye hardening. “Find her. And stop her.”

            Derek was silent for a long moment, as if struggling with this. And then he shook his head almost imperceptibly, and said, “Fine.”

            “I’ll go with you,” said Allison, letting go of Scott.

            “No,” replied Cora firmly. “It’s too dangerous.”

            Skeptically, Allison asked, “So you’re going to send your brother out alone?”

            Cora watched her, considering this. Genuine doubt snuck its way onto Cora’s face, an expression Allison had seen on the other girl so rarely, if ever.

            “Besides,” added Allison confidently, “who better to find and kill a crazed, murderous ghost-werewolf than a werewolf hunter?”

            Narrowing her eyes as if in concentration, Cora began, “OK… _crazed, murderous ghost-werewolf_ is, like, at least three steps above wherever you are right now-”

            “I’ll call Isaac,” said Derek, but then Scott finally spoke, his voice hoarse.

            “You can’t,” he said. “He’s out cold at my place. He’s been hallucinating all night, there’s no way you’d be able to bring him down enough to help.”

            “We’re wasting time,” said Allison impatiently. “Derek, you should check your home, the loft, and wherever Peter’s body is. I’ll head out to the woods.”

            “Alone?” asked Cora.

            Allison’s gaze slid over to the other girl. “Deaton said the Morrigan doesn’t take women,” she told her, almost reassuringly. “If worst comes to worst, I can call backup.” Cora nodded, without looking away from Allison’s eyes.

            Scott wiped his face again, shaking his head, trying to come back to the moment. He began, “I’ll come with you-” but Allison cut him off.

            “No,” she said, placing a hand on his chest. “If you need to be anywhere right now, it’s with Stiles.”

            They met one another’s gaze for another second, and then Scott reached out and held her tightly. As Allison let go of him, leaving one last kiss on his lips, Derek’s grip on Cora’s hand loosened, and then she turned around, hooking her arms around his torso tightly, pressing her head into his chest. “I love you, Derek,” she murmured, her voice muffled. “Be safe.”

            He looked down at her, almost as if surprised. And then, slowly, he returned the embrace, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and gently brushing his hand down the length of her hair. “I love you too,” he said, very quietly. “I will be.” He let her go and planted his hands protectively on her shoulders, leaning down to meet her eye. “Don’t leave the hospital,” he said. “Don’t leave Scott.”

            She began, “Like he can protect me any better than-”

            “He doesn’t need to protect you,” replied Derek patiently. “If anything, you both need to protect Stiles. If you have to, you work together. You fight together. A True Alpha and a daughter of the Hale family?” He gave a small, tired smile. “There’s nothing that could get past the two of you.”

            She looked at him, and then threw her arms around him again. After a few moments, without another word, she pulled away. “Go,” she said, looking around to Allison. “If you need us, call.”

            Allison nodded, and then she left, heading out to her car, Derek right behind her. Cora and Scott watched them go, and then she turned around to head into the ER. “Wait,” said Scott, stopping her. “He’s still in critical condition, until my mom comes out and tells us something else. That means only family with him, for right now.”

            Cora stared past him, at the hall down which she knew Stiles was still fighting, struggling to hold on. The intense look in her eyes cut Scott deeply, and he had to look away, unable to bear it. “You think he’s in pain?” she asked, her voice faint. “We could take it away. I could…I could save him, what Derek did for me.”

            “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be using that power right now,” replied Scott steadily. “Plus I’m not sure that would even work at all on a regular human.” When she turned again, looking back, straining to hear some indication of Stiles’s condition, Scott reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her back. “Cora,” he said. “Just let the doctors take care of him now. You’ve done all you can.”

            She said nothing, her face pale and cold, lips still tingling from where her mouth had touched the acrid wolfsbane poison lining his.

            Allison went to the Hale house alone. Derek, although he’d barely said a word to her, agreed to follow her direction and took off, his small, dark car speeding through the night. Without returning to her home, Allison took the car down into the woods, stopping before the broken-down, burnt home. When she turned off the engine, everything became deadly quiet. The typical sounds of the forest, of organic, natural life surrounding her, were completely still. No breeze blew through the trees, stirring leaves at her feet. She opened the trunk of the car, breaking the fake bottom, revealing an array of weapons. Taking them out one by one, she loaded them onto her body, clipping a holster around her waist and thigh, taking her bow and testing her vision, pulling the wire taut and peering into the night. Tucking a crossbow into the quiver on her back, she glanced through her weapons, searching for anything else she could use. Behind her, the red door of the house swung open, creaking loudly in the darkness.

            Allison didn’t move.

            Then, immediately, she turned on her heel and shot an arrow into the house, through the frame of the door. She heard it clatter to the ground inside the house, without a specific target in which to sink its tip.

            Without bothering to close her trunk, Allison moved forward swiftly, holding her bow before her. There was no fear in her voice as she called, “Laura? Laura Hale?”

            Silence.

            She reached the steps before the porch. Shadows shuddered and molted inside the house, and Allison could make out no distinct shapes, no definite figures. Quickly, her fingers cold and bone-white, she lowered her bow, retrieving a different arrowhead from a pouch at her waist, and replacing it on the arrow, which she nocked again, holding it up.

            “Derek doesn’t believe it’s you,” she continued, her voice loud, calling into the empty house. “He doesn’t think you’re capable of hurting Stiles, or killing your sister.”

            Allison licked her lips, her mouth dry.

            “I know what it feels like to find out your family is so much worse than you could have imagined,” she muttered. She did not think whatever was there in the shadows could even hear her. “And I feel sorry for him,” she continued, pulling the wire of her bow tight, “but I’m not about to underestimate you.”

            She shot the arrow, and it sailed into the house. When it collided with the wood, it burst with a great explosion of light, red and yellow and white, and whatever it was that was inside screamed so loudly that it split through Allison’s head like someone had cleaved her skull in two. She stumbled away, hands pressing against her ears. She tripped and fell onto a hard patch of ground, densely packed dirt, and there was a small _crack_ and a painful jabbing beneath her. Scrambling to her hands and knees, she realized she had fallen directly on her bow, and the fine details at the lower tip had snapped off, rendering the wire loose and useless.

            For the first time that night, fear began to rise in her belly. Behind her, from the house, she heard the crackling of footsteps crunching autumnal leaves, and she turned around, eyes wide.

            A woman advanced towards her, hair matted and stringy and twisted. Her skin was bloodless, her teeth bared in a furious snarl, and the shining glow of her pure-white eyes betrayed her as something so far removed than human. Body barely wrapped in cloth like a funeral shroud, Laura Hale stalked towards Allison, bathed in the light of the full moon, and howled, “ _Fire?_ ”

            Allison’s horrified gaze slid behind the woman, to where a flickering light glowed in the house. Even as she watched, it grew, engulfing the front room, the red door.

            As Laura crossed the distance between them, Allison tried to get to her feet but she didn’t have time; she crawled away, shuffling as best she could, heart pounding in panic, and she heard the snap of her bow breaking in two as Laura brought her heel down on its middle, hard, and howled in rage.

            “ _You_ ,” snarled Laura, reaching out with clawed fingers towards Allison. “How _dare_ you.”

            She clamped her hand around Allison’s neck, lifting her into the air so that her feet no longer touched the earthy ground, dangling helplessly, as if tugged by a noose.

            “ _Fire?_ ” hissed Laura again, and the flickering light from the house was hot enough that Allison could feel it now, sucking the moisture from the air. The woman snarled once more, tightening her grip on Allison’s throat.

            Desperately, Allison’s hand clung to her thigh, fingers extended. And then, at last, she curled her fingers around what it was she reached for, and whipped her hand up, shooting six times point-blank into Laura’s face.

            A second later, when the smoke cleared, Laura leered at Allison, the bullets clinking as they fell out of her face, her skin healing perfectly.

            “You think you can hurt me?” whispered Laura, her eyes empty and shining white. She bared her teeth at Allison and snarled, “They’re only going to kill me _once_.”

            With immense force, she swung around, throwing Allison towards the burning house. She skidded along the wooden floor, through the threshold of the door, into the burning house. Gasping for breath, spots appearing in her vision, Allison laboriously got to her hands and knees, and then her coughing intensified and it became no easier to take a breath. Jolting through her body like electricity, she suddenly realized that the stinging in her eyes and the acrid smell in her nose was the fire before her, razing what little was left of the Hale home.

            A figure stood in the flickering flames, and Allison stared up at her in abject horror.

            Kate cocked her head slightly, staring at Allison with wide eyes. Her face was marked with ash, lining the bones of her cheek, creating a skeletal mask over her skin. Embers from the fire landed on Allison’s hands and face, burning her before they disappeared, and she tore her gaze away from the ghost of her aunt. “No!” she shouted. “ _No!_ ”

            Shaking, she managed to get to her feet, but then someone took hold of her wrists, holding her immobile, unable to run. Before her, the woman in the fire flickered, and something changed, and the skeletal lines on her face became more prominent even as her features shifted, her eyes darkening, her jaw widening.

            Allison had to close her eyes against the stinging heat of the fire as a mirror image of herself stared back, wrapped in fire, emerging from it unscathed. Struggling against the woman holding her tightly, she turned her head, but Laura’s clawed fingers shot out, grasping her chin and forcing her to face straight ahead.

            Laura’s whispering voice tickled Allison’s ear as she murmured, “Do you know what you did to my sister, Argent?”

            Allison could not reply, only squeeze her eyes shut tightly and try to choke down the sob growing in her throat, the fire so close she thought she could feel her skin blistering in the heat.

            The hand at her chin slid down to her throat, pressing the back of Allison’s head tightly to the crook of Laura’s neck. “Nobody found her,” hissed the woman. “I didn’t get to weep over her corpse because there was none. The bodies burned so hotly that it was impossible to identify remains. All they had was my count of the dead.”

            She pressed her claws into Allison’s neck. The fire danced along the wooden floor before them, melting the soles of Allison’s shoes.

            “Cora,” she whispered, “my _eleven-year-old_ sister. She shifted, and she limped out to the forest to heal. Because that’s what we’re supposed to do. Let your instincts take over, hide and heal.” She bared her teeth. “So much easier to do when you’re not human. But then again, hide too long, and animal instinct overtakes you, and you forget to come back.”

            Laura threw Allison onto the ground, and Allison screamed; fire licked up at her, catching at the tips of her hair. Around them, the fire roared, and the wooden beams of the house groaned and creaked in rumbling protest.

            “She became a _wolf_ ,” shouted Laura, over the crackling of the fire. “For six years, she refused to be human because humans get _hurt_. Because humans can be _killed_.”

            The shining tear tracks down Laura’s cheeks disappeared as soon as they fell, the heat of the fire instantly evaporating them.

            “You killed her,” wept Laura hatefully, advancing on Allison with those shining white eyes. “It _killed_ her. She is barely anything but wolf because your _family_ burned the human right out of her, out of an _eleven-year-old_ girl-”

            Laura snarled and raised a clawed hand, but then Allison’s hand shot back, and she tore the crossbow out of her quiver. Raising it, she released a bolt straight into Laura’s forehead and launched herself to her feet. Through gritted teeth, her gaze venomous and hate-filled, Allison replied, “No. Your sister was never _just_ human.”

            She slipped a long hunting knife out of her belt and stabbed it through Laura’s throat, wide, dead eyes staring at her.

            Cruelly, Allison said: “She is _so_ -” she wrenched the knife sideways, splitting open the dead woman’s throat, “- _much_ -” she sliced upwards, lodging the blade into the bone of Laura’s chin, “- _more_.”

            Laura screamed, loud and guttural; no blood spurt from her wounds, no pulse to fuel it, and she reached out and took Allison’s face in her hands, forcing her downwards to the fire. Sneering at Allison, the arrow still lodged in her forehead, her claws slit into Allison’s skin, lowering her to the floor. A scream rose in Allison’s throat, joining that of the other woman, as the fire came so close to flicker across her, the smoke heady and powerful as the flames singed her hair.

            With one hand, Laura reached up and tore the arrow from her skull, then lowered her face to Allison’s. “Do you know,” she hissed, “how _alone_ you are in death?”

            “ _Hey!_ ”

            Laura’s white, filmy eyes blinked, and she spun around, baring her teeth. Before she could do anything else, an axe swung through the smoke and collided with Laura’s torso. She dropped Allison to the floor, screaming in pain.

            Burning, her lungs desperate for breath and eyes streaming water from her tears and the acridity of the smoke, Allison stared behind Laura, at whoever it was whom had swung the axe. Panting, Lydia stood there, her perfectly curled hair frizzing in the heat of the fire before her, remarkably steady even in her four-inch pumps.

            “Sorry,” spat Lydia at the ghost before her, “but she isn’t either of those things.”

            Through the sheets wrapped around her body, stark redness bled through in a ring around her waist like a belt, where the axe had torn into her. Chest heaving, her eyes wide, Laura held up her clawed hands, reaching out to tear at Lydia’s face, but Allison took an arrow in her hands and scrambled to her feet, stabbing it into the spot below Laura’s neck, marred by a symbol outlined in raised black lines, like veins.

            With one more hateful scream, Laura disappeared, leaving a haze of smoke that mixed with that of the fire.

            Taking no time to gape at her friend, Allison shot forward, taking hold of Lydia, tugging her out of the burning house, stumbling down the steps, stopping on the earth outside, holding each other tightly by the arms as the house went up in smoke before them. With a great creaking, the second floor collapsed, smothering most of the fire.

            They stared at the wreck of a house for a moment, and then Lydia said, “Cora is going to be _so_ pissed.”

            In shock, Allison turned to look at her friend. Gaping, she glanced down at the axe Lydia still held in one hand.

            “Oh,” she said, holding it up uncertainly. “I was-” she gestured behind them, to the trunk of Allison’s care, still open. Looking down at the axe, she said, “This was the only thing I had any idea how to use. Besides,” she added, with a sly smile, “it’s kind of appropriate.” She made a face, feigning gruffness, wielding the axe. “Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?”

            Allison stared at her, and then, despite herself, she laughed, her throat dry and painful. Throwing her arms around Lydia, she hugged her tightly. “Thank you,” she said. “You saved my life.”

            “But not your hair,” said Lydia bitterly, drawing away, gingerly touching the burnt ends of Allison’s long hair.

            “It’s fine,” replied Allison, shaking her head, grinning back at her. “I’ve been meaning to cut it anyway.” She reached out and took Lydia’s wrist, the grin sliding off her face. “You can get out of here, if you want.”

            “What?” asked Lydia, as if offended. “No way. She broke your bow.”

            “I can take care of-”

            “With your bow, sure,” said Lydia, cutting her off, “you’re unstoppable.” Her lips, bright pink in the dark night, slid back in a smile, and she held Allison’s hand tightly. Leaning her, eyes wide and lashes long and perfect, she said lowly: “Let me be your bow.”

            Allison watched her intensely for a second, and then said, “OK. It’s good that you’re here, then.” She turned around, the light burns on her skin cold and shivery in the night air, now that the fire was all but gone. Staring into the trees, she told her friend, “You can get me to the Nemeton.”

            It was hours later that Scott and Cora were still outside of the room where Stiles now lay. Scott’s mother had informed them that he was breathing again, but he had not regained consciousness. “There’s no medical explanation for it,” she’d told them, shaking her head. “He’s got this huge wound forming around his waist. Necrosis is setting in and nobody can tell why, it’s like a phantom wound, coming from nothing.”

            Scott and Cora exchanged glances. “Laura,” she said, her voice hard. “From where they cut her in half.”

            “That’s not all,” added Melissa. “Fluid is filling his lungs, and he keeps coughing up blood. He’s effectively drowning in it.” She’d glanced behind her, and leaned forward towards her son. “Here’s the scary part,” she muttered. “I took a sample of the blood…” she looked between Cora and Scott, fear reflected in her eyes, “…and it isn’t his.”

            “ _What?_ ” asked Scott, gaping. “Whose is it?”

            “The results make it look like a woman’s,” she said, glancing down at a clipboard before her. “This is so impossible, but it’s like a blood relative, like maybe-”

            Voice low, Scott finished her sentence. “His mother’s.”

            Melissa looked at him, eyes wide and worried, and then nodded.

            It felt like something hot and sharped sliced right through Scott’s insides. Peering behind his mother, voice pained, Scott asked, “Can’t we see him?” but Melissa shook her head.

            “No,” she said, “I’m sorry. I would, but…” she looked behind her, towards the room where Stiles lay unconscious, his father at his side, “…not without his father’s permission.”

            She had left, and they stayed, unmoving, for hours. At first they kept watch, but Cora had fallen asleep, her head resting on the wall behind her. Scott almost drifted off as well, curled up in his seat, leaning his head on Cora’s shoulder. He shifted slightly, and then his eyes fluttered open, a frown on his face. For a moment, he did not move, and then he started awake, sitting up straight, his hands flying to Cora, shaking her. He hissed her name and she almost jumped out of her seat, eyes flashing scarlet for just one moment. “What?” she demanded, placing her hands around his wrists as he held onto her shoulders. “What is it?”

            Scott didn’t meet her gaze, staring down at the floor in deep concentration, listening intently. His voice low, he asked, “Do you hear that?”

            She narrowed her eyes, lifting her head, her gaze flickering to the room before them, and then back to Scott. “Yeah,” she said. “A heartbeat.”

            Scott clenched his jaw, staring at her. Barely above a breath, he said, “One heartbeat.”

            Something deep and heavy ran between them. Then, instantly they were both up, and Scott wrenched open the door of the hospital room. The Sheriff was out cold, lying uselessly in the seat beside the bed. The bed, with the sheets half uncovered, and red and black stains on the pillow from the blood and fluid that had streamed from Stiles’s mouth. The bed, which was completely empty.

            Scott staggered into the room, horrified, hands shaking as he approached the bed. Cora stood at the door, lips tight, eyes wide and all but unable to breathe.

            Deep in the woods, Derek moved forward carefully, peering through the trees. He had been creeping through the forest for too long, and he knew it, but something moved him, propelled him forward, deeper into territory with which he was not totally familiar. Something powerful and dangerous thrummed through this part of the forest, and he advanced forward with caution, inexplicably drawn towards something.

            The trees broke into a clearing. The ground beneath him turned from a dense layer of leaves into sandy, dry dirt, and he stood by the trunk of a thick, wide tree, almost hiding behind it, staring at the image before him.

            Silvery light from the full moon streamed down onto the surface of the stump of a giant tree, ringed with lines innumerable. There was a body lain out on the Nemeton, arm thrown out deliberately, almost ceremoniously. Derek’s heart froze as a beam of moonlight passed over the figure’s face, and he shot forward, panic bubbling in his chest.

            “No,” he muttered, reaching the tree, tugging at the body there, pulling him down, trying to control the roaring of his own blood pumping in his head enough to hear a heartbeat. “God no, Stiles, _no_ -”

            Before him, the boy’s chest lifted and fell as he took a breath, and Derek could have cried in relief. Stiles’s fingers moved very slowly, curled around something, clutching it tightly.

            “I’ve got you,” said Derek, holding him breathlessly. “I’m gonna get you out of here, Stiles, and back to Cora and, and Scott, and your father, and the others, and you’ll be fine.”

            Without opening his eyes, Stiles shook his head barely. “No…” he murmured. “Derek…”

            “You’re not a sacrifice,” said Derek, and then, holding Stiles, pulling him up, close to his chest, he looked up and around. “Do you hear me?” he shouted. “I don’t care _who_ you are or what you want. He is _not_ your sacrifice!”

            A sharp, fiery pain slit through Derek’s chest, and he gasped, eyes widening. Slowly, he looked down at his body, where a stake of mistletoe pierced through his heart.

            Stiles did not look up from where his hand was wrapped around the stake. “You’re right, Derek,” he said, his voice low and exhausted. Finally, his gaze flickered up to meet Derek’s shining, shocked eyes. Expressionless and ashen, Stiles stared back and him and whispered: “You are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhhhh shit!
> 
> almost finished! Happy New Year, and thank you so much for reading!


	13. Morrigan

Morrigan

_The Morrigan next came in the form of a rough, grey-red bitch-wolf._

So spake the Morrigan…

"Knows not the restless Brown of the truly deadly fray that is not uncertain?-- A raven's croak-- The raven that doth not conceal-- Foes range your checkered plain-- Troops on raids-- I have a secret-- Ye shall know. . . The waving fields-- The deep-green grass . . . and rich, soft plain-- Wealth of flowers' splendour-- Badb's cow-lowing-- Wild the raven-- Dead the men-- A tale of woe-- Battle-storm on Cualnge evermore, to the death of mighty sons-- Kith looking on the death of kin!"

[x.](http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/cool/cool08c.htm)

 

            Everything was silent. The moon bore down on them, casting Stiles’s blank face in shadows as Derek watched him, his eyes wide and human, lips parted ever so slightly in shock. Then a trickle of crimson liquid ran down Derek’s chin from the side of his mouth, and, very slowly, he fell back onto the dusty, hard ground, a burst of red-black blood blooming on his chest.

            Helplessly, Derek’s eyes rolled back as someone stood over him, blocking the light of the full moon. She knelt down beside him, gently taking his head in her hands, her eyes a pure, uninterrupted, ghostly white.

            “Derek,” whispered Laura, gently running her thumb along his temple. “I don’t want you to die.” He stared up at her desperately, confusion and pain written in the agonized lines of his face. “But you’re a soldier.” She lowered her head, pressing her lips against her forehead. Her skin was colder than his, even as the blood pumped out of him from the wound on his chest. “And soldiers,” she breathed, lips brushing against his face, “are expendable.”

            On the tree, Stiles propped himself up by his hands, blinking, staring down at the sight before him. And suddenly, something seemed to register with him, and he began, “Oh my God-” Laura glanced up at him, eyes eerie and piercing. “Oh my _God_ ,” he repeated, scrambling backwards across the stump of the tree, away from the woman. “You-” he pressed his hands against himself, his blood-covered hands, and then he let out a hiss of pain and pulled up his shirt, revealing the festering wound around his waist. In shock, he whispered, “… _me?_ ” As Laura drew herself up to full height, Stiles stared up at her.

            “Thank you, Stiles,” she said, very simply. “I hope you realize what a vital role you played in all of this.”

            “What?” he asked, trembling up at her. “What did _I_ do?”

            She reached out, as if to touch his face; on the surface of the Nemeton’s stump, he tried to scramble away, but some invisible force pulled him towards her, and her fingers were ice-cold where they touched his chin. “My family,” she breathed, “binds women into wolves when they die. I was fortunate. To be unbound is one thing, but,” she almost laughed, “to be unbound by a _druid_ …”

            His eyes widened, and he stared at her in fear. “The wolfsbane rope,” he whispered. “When we dug up your body…”

            “Exactly,” she purred, satisfied. “ _You_ broke the spiral. You let me out. Once Cora finally found Alpha, the gates were open, and then you – _my_ druid, my _savior_ -” she grinned at him, teeth white and gleaming in the moonlight, “-you forged a connection to the Nemeton. And it began.”

            “ _No_ ,” he breathed, but then his elbows buckled and he twisted away from her, covering his face, and she reached up a hand and flicked sideways. Some invisible force threw him aside, slamming his body hard on the trunk of a nearby tree, and he crumpled uselessly at its base.

            Laura stood before the Nemeton, under the moon of the winter solstice. She held her arms out, white eyes closed, and breathed in deeply. The blood still spilling from Derek’s body moved and streamed away from him, as if drawn by some force towards her, tiny rivulets of trickling scarlet life torn away from her brother, reaching her feet, twisting up her body, restoring her cold, pale, lifeless body with warmth and color.

            And then, out of nowhere, a piercing, screaming howl broke the calm of the clearing, and something collided with Laura with such force that it knocked her onto the Nemeton, breaking the streams of blood which climbed up her body. Her clear white eyes widened and she bared long fangs as Cora landed on top of her, pinning her to the tree. Laura’s hand shot out and she caught her sister around the throat, clutching on tightly. “ _No_ -!” choked Cora, her hands going to her sister’s wrist, digging in. With enormous force of will, she squeezed, then jerked her hand back, snapping Laura’s wrist with a loud _crack_. Laura screamed, and then threw Cora off of her, onto the ground, and stood up on the Nemeton, the whiteness in her eyes glowing in the dark, reflecting the silver of the moonlight.

            In pain, her eyes hooded and hard and focused on her sister, Cora got to her feet, her back bent, ready to launch into assault again. Stony and cold, baring her teeth threateningly, Cora asked bluntly, “How?”

            Laura’s face split into a smile. “How?” she repeated. “You know how, Cora. You know the sacrifices I needed.”

            “You needed _me_ ,” said Cora, with a wary grimace, slowly moving, circling the stump of the Nemeton, and Laura atop it. “You were going to use _me_ -”

            Shaking her head, Laura called, “I take soldiers. Not daughters. I would have preferred to use Peter, for – obvious reasons. But any remaining male bloodline would do.”

            Cora clenched her jaw, heart pounding, and glanced to where Stiles lay limply. Unwilling to tear her senses away from Laura enough to listen for a heartbeat, she could only hope that he was still breathing. “It was him, wasn’t it?” she asked, and her voice was too loud to shake, compensating for the cold fear twining around her insides. “Stiles. He was the druid directing the power, that’s why it’s been affecting him the worst. You’ve been using him.”

            Laura only watched her sister, without moving her head to make an indication of assent. “He’s been making the spell,” she said. “But _you_ were the conduit, Cora.” She stared at her, those white eyes eerie and cold. “If anyone was using him, it was you.” Cora stared at her. It felt like her heart slowed down, each beat lasting an eternity. “The closer you two became,” said Laura, with that sick smile on her face again, “the easier it was to take him away.”

            There was a silence. Cora stared at her. And then, without making a sound, she shot forward, slashing at Laura’s face. The smile disappeared, molting into a dark, twisted sneer, and she threw Cora to the ground.

            “My own _sister_ ,” she hissed, stepping off the Nemeton, advancing on Cora. “My own family, disobeying the _rightful Alpha_ -”

            Cora roared at her sister, claws held out, her eyes a blindingly deep red. “ _I_ am the Alpha!” she bellowed at her, howling at the moon, and she threw herself towards Laura. “You _killed Derek!_ ”

            Laura hit her sister across the face, knocking her to the ground. “We make,” said Laura loudly, pressing her foot against Cora’s neck, “ _sacrifices_. A daughter of the Hales is _infinitely_ more valuable than a son. This has always been true.”

            Growling, with the last of her breath, Cora gasped, “You are _not_ a Hale daughter… you are _not_ my sister…”

            Laura stared at her for a long moment, struggling beneath her foot. And then she cocked her head sideways and pressed down, crushing her sister’s throat.

            Very lightly, her voice hardly more than a breath, Laura said, “I suppose you’re right.” She removed her foot, pressing it against Cora’s face; instantly, Cora wrenched her head out from beneath Laura’s foot and rolled away, clutching her throat, panting for breath as it healed. Those piercingly white eyes shone as wind began to whip, throwing dust into the air, and Laura held out her arms. In the distance, a conspiracy of ravens erupted from the trees, feathers flying, cawing into the night.

            Voice loud and distorted, as if simultaneous with a thousand screams and great walls of glass shattering into pieces, she spoke.

            “ _I am the Phantom Queen_ ,” and the earth itself seemed to shake at her voice. “ _I am a Valkyrie. I am Lamia, Lilith, and the Mara. I am the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone. I am Badb, Macha, and Nemain_.”

            She advanced towards Cora, long hair flying, black veins pulsing up her neck, into her face.

            “I am the Morrigan,” she hissed, “and I am the witch your family bound when they carved my symbol onto the skin of your daughters.”

            She held out her hands, staring down at Cora; and then there was a loud _bang_ and Laura froze. Slowly, she looked down at her body. Where the bullet collided with her chest, bright red blood dripped down her body.

            “Witch?” asked Lydia, narrowing her eyes, standing beside Allison, who held a shotgun in her hands. “Oh, I am _sure_ you meant the other word.”

            Laura snarled at them, and Allison shot again, then said to Lydia, “Take care of him.”

            “Him?” asked Lydia, her eyes wide, stumbling slightly backwards as Laura stepped over Cora’s prone body and moved forward, bleeding her brother’s blood from her wounds. “Stiles or Derek?”

            Allison shot two more times and said, “Whichever you can get to, just _go_.”

            With one last glance at Laura, Lydia ran behind Allison, kneeling beside Stiles, completely unconscious. Allison shot another time but Laura moved forward without any indication of pain. Warningly, Allison called, “Cora…”

            On cue, Cora’s hand shot out, catching Laura by the ankles, digging her claws into her heel, pulling her back so quickly that she fell to the ground. Using the force of the pull to swing to her feet, Cora landed her foot squarely on the back of Laura’s head as she darted forward to where Allison stood, loading the gun. “I don’t think that’s doing anything,” gasped Cora, breathing hard, almost healed.

            “This might,” replied Allison, keeping her eyes up, on the woman before them. “Wolfsbane bullets. If she’s in your sister’s body, she’s still got the vulnerabilities of any other werewolf. It might not kill her, but it’ll slow her down.”

            Cora nodded, and Laura rose again; Allison shot her in the chest, and she roared, her white eyes glowing, lighting up, her outstretched hand twisting sharply, as if clawing at something invisible. Beside Cora, Allison suddenly gasped, clinging tightly to the gun. “Allison?” asked Cora, glancing at the other girl. Laura smiled, her eyes flickering between the girls, and Cora took bodily hold of Allison, shaking her. “Allison, come _on_ , I need you-!”

            “No,” whispered the hunter, her eyes rolling backwards as if unconscious. She held the gun tightly to her chest; in her mind’s eye, a pack of wolves descended, salivating, their golden eyes glinting, threatening to dig their snouts into her intestines, tearing her body apart.

            Shaking Allison by her shoulders, Cora shouted her name once more, but then Allison said, steadily: “ _No_. Not again.”

            There was a sharp _bang_ and Cora’s eyes widened, the red draining from them, the bullet lodged deeply in her stomach. For a moment, no one moved. And then, very slowly, the pain entered Cora’s body, more intense than she had felt in years, more real than fire, than the stinging, electrifying heat of the mark on her back, and then everything became simple.

            As she fell, animal instinct flooded into her veins, and the black ooze from her wound matted her fur as she hit the ground, a small, silver, red-eyed wolf.

            Laura stood there before Allison, shaking and screaming against some unseen force, and Cora, no longer there in any human capacity. Laura breathed deeply, the chaos-laden air sweet in her lungs, and the wolfsbane bullet ejected from her body, falling uselessly to the ground.

            She held up a clawed hand, looking down at the girl before her pitifully. “Your brother was meant to do,” she said quietly, “but after all the damage to this body, I could use a boost…”

            She knelt down, trailing her claws along the wolf’s body. The wound was healing rapidly, far faster than it would in a human body. Laura clutched the animal’s head, clamping the snout closed, and whispered, “I am sorry, Cora. Believe me. It’s nothing personal.”

            There was a rushing, whizzing sound, and then a body appeared, leaping over the body of the wolf and barreling into Laura, throwing her to the ground, slashing at her throat.

            Hissing into Laura’s face, hovering above her gleaming white eyes, Sam said, “ _Yeah_. It just got personal.” Without using her claws at all, Sam’s decidedly human fist collided with the side of Laura’s face. “You want to hurt your family?” she roared, snarling. “You’ll have to _kill me first_.”

            Laura threw her head back, exposing the torn flesh of her throat, healing again. She laughed, and it sounded like a thousand screams and a million croaking caws of every raven across the forest. Then she took Sam’s head and threw her face, hard, into the ground. Laura pulled herself up to her feet, staring down at the girl. “ _Kill you?_ ” she echoed, her voice dripping derisively with poison. “And you think that will _stop_ m-”

            She broke off suddenly, the grin sliding from her lips, eyes widening, raising her arms, gaze jerking down to her body.

            Blood trickled out of the wounds at her throat and on her chest, pooled on the dirt beneath her, forming a stream that slithered across the ground, back to where Derek lay. Rosemary knelt beside him, hands over his wound, slowly extracting the spear from his flesh, muttering an incantation, rubbing something into the spot from which he bled. Beside her, Grace slowly got to her feet, staring at Laura, her lip curling back to reveal long, threatening fangs. A third wolf appeared, Jaz: she stood on the Nemeton, growling down at Laura, who only spared a glance for her, then looked back at Grace, and smirked.

            “It was a mistake,” Laura said, addressing Grace, bowing her head slightly, “not to cut you in two.” She smiled at Grace, cocking her head. “The whole time, I had you fooled,” she said. “You really thought I would bring her back for you?”

            Grace only stared at her, head held high. The werewolf on the Nemeton hissed and advanced forward, and Grace said sharply, “ _Jaz_.”

            The smile on Laura’s face widened, eyes white and unnatural. “Is this it?” she asked, her voice hushed. “Just you and me. Lovers facing one another on the battlefield?”

            Grace said nothing for a moment. And then she shook her head.

            “ _Ex_ -lovers,” she corrected, and then Jaz and Sam howled simultaneously, throwing themselves at either side of Laura; Grace leapt over Rosemary and Derek and, claws extended, sprinted towards Laura, tearing at her flesh. She snarled back at them, white eyes flashing, blocking their blows. Jaz threw herself upwards, curled her legs around Laura’s neck, squeezing, wrenching her off-balance so that Sam could collide her fist with Laura’s skull again, and then Grace reached out to hold Laura’s throat tightly. Slowly, her struggling against them every second, they brought her down to the ground, Grace’s hand pressing down into Laura's her mouth, between her teeth. Laura bit down, plunging her fangs into Grace’s flesh, but she did not wince or flinch away, only stared into Laura’s empty white eyes.

            And then Laura screamed, and the three werewolves were propelled away from her forcefully, slamming into trees, their backs pressed against the wooden trunks, hanging there as if held by their throats. Wind began to stir again, collecting dirt and dust. Laura rose to her feet, arms held out, claws extended. Her white eyes flickered down to where Rosemary knelt over Derek, and Laura gestured violently with her outstretched palm, sweeping the emissary-wolf up as well, pinning her to a tree like the rest of her pack.

            Grace glanced to either side of her, seeing her Betas struggling for breath. Sam gasped desperately, face red, not quite yet healed from the wounds Laura had inflicted on her.

            Drawing on her last vestiges of breath, Grace whispered, “Laura… if you can…hear me…”

            Her breath escaped her in a shudder, and her dark eyes were not wet with tears, but burning with unyielding resolve.

            She gasped, “ _Let them go_ ,” and Laura did nothing, only stared.

            And then Laura closed her fingers into a fist, and all four werewolves fell silent, bruises already forming from the invisible, wraithlike hands clasped around their throats.

            She watched them for another moment, and then her gaze dropped back down to where she had left Cora, in the panting, shaggy form of a wolf. She was not there. Laura narrowed her eyes and glanced around. There was only Allison, lying on the ground with her eyes still open, body jerking as the wolves in her head dug through her insides.

            “I see,” said Laura softly, her voice low, eyes still on the ground. “You may be Alpha, Cora, but you’re still just a child. The only thing you know how to do is slink back into the woods and hide.”

            The wind whipped around frantically, and, her shining eyes reflecting the silvery light of the moon, she rose preternaturally into the air, arms still splayed out, Grace’s pack all nearly unconscious, no breath filling their lungs. Laura’s head lolled back, and the mark at the base of her neck shone with the same white light of her eyes. Beneath her, red blood from Derek’s wound lifted into the air, twisting and shooting like dye in water, spiraling up to her body, curling around her limbs, breathing life into Laura’s corpse.

            From nowhere, something sailed through the air and collided thickly with the side of Laura’s skull. Instantly, the winds quietened, and Laura’s gaze raked down to the ground, where Lydia knelt beside Stiles’s limp body, tears streaming down her face, smearing her makeup. She sniffed loudly, and then took off her other shoe and flung it at Laura as well. Without shifting her gaze, Laura moved her head ever so slightly, and the high-heeled shoe was flung away, into the forest.

            Laura only stared at her.

            Lydia pressed her lips together, rocking back and forth, trying to stave off the sobs in her throat. Her face contorted into an ugly, hateful scowl, she shouted, voice hoarse: “ _You think you’ve won?_ ”

            The words echoed in the emptiness, the strange calm of the night.

            Lydia clung to Stiles’s body, holding him tightly, and took a great, deep breath. With revulsion, she spat up at the witch, “That’s _cute_ ,” and then she opened her mouth wide and screamed, shrill and hoarse and ringing in the darkness.

            Narrowing her eyes, Laura began, “Screaming isn’t going to help you-” but then another voice cut through the silence-

             “ _CORA, NOW!_ ”

            And a girl darted from the trees, clutching a wound on her stomach; from the opposite direction, someone ran into the clearing. Before Laura could do more than look down at them, they met below her in the middle of the clearing, and Scott’s hands brushed Cora’s for just a moment as he pressing something into her palms. Then, leaping upwards, Cora planted her foot firmly in Scott’s hands, his fingers interlocked, and he propelled her up towards Laura’s body, hanging in the air. A fierce, savage wind stirring on the ground, the ghost-witch hardly had time to throw out her hand before Cora reached out and just barely hooked a length of rope around Laura’s ankle. Landing low to the ground, Cora looked up: a scream bubbled from Laura’s lips, something like actual fear there, and then she fell, hard, onto the surface of the Nemeton. Around them, Grace’s pack fell as well, collapsing at the base of the trees to which they had been pinned, and Allison snapped out of her trance, eyes wide, stiff and still on the dusty ground.

            Scott and Cora descended on Laura, who screamed and writhed beneath them, throwing them off. “Help us!” yelled Scott, and Grace unsteadily got to her feet, stumbling forward, falling to the ground, blinking, coughing loudly. Laura fought against them, and just as her hand reached out, clasping for Scott’s face, someone took firm hold of her arm, pulling her away. Lydia stood by the side of the tree stump, barefoot, mascara running. “I knew you’d come,” she breathed. “I _knew_ -”

            Grace appeared, pinning Laura’s head onto the tree, pressing down against her face, muffling her screams. “Lift her up!” shouted Cora, and Grace’s pack suddenly surrounded them, each taking strong hold of Laura, keeping her immobile as Cora wrapped the rope around her sister, binding her body tightly. She thrashed and seized beneath them, screaming and shouting desperately; Cora heard Laura scream her name, and their brother’s name, but she did not stop. Allison joined them, holding the woman until Cora finally wound the rope around her neck, tying it tightly, and then she became suddenly, utterly still.

            And then the woman in their arms - bound by the wolfsbane rope, lain out like a sacrifice on the ringed stump of the Nemeton - then the woman before them became a whimpering grey-red wolf.

            Heavy and dense with muscle, with fur dark and mottled, the wolf's snout lolled open, exposing enormous canines. Cora’s palms stung from where she had handled the wolfsbane rope.

            They lowered the animal back onto the Nemeton. A deep red liquid seeped out of its body and slithered down along the tree, across the ground, to where Derek still lay. With a jolting, gasping inhale, he began to breathe.

            There was a silence. And then Cora doubled over slightly, a hand going to the wound at her stomach. “Allison,” she said, without looking up. “Your bullets.”

            “Oh my God,” replied Allison, her eyes flickering down to the disgusting black mess at Cora’s abdomen. “I shot you, oh my God-”

            “Wolfsbane?” asked Scott, and Allison nodded. “OK,” he said, “she needs one of the bullets, right now.”

            Her eyes lingering on Scott, Allison nodded, and then she reached into a pouch at her belt and produced a long, dangerous bullet. Scott bit it open, pouring the wolfsbane powder onto the surface of the Nemeton. “Fire,” he said, looking up at Allison wildly. “We need fire, we have to burn it-”

            Allison removed something else from her belt and stuck it into the tree; the flare lit up the herb with a sparking, bright intensity, and Cora flinched away from it, but did not move. Without anything else, Cora swept the ashes into her fist and pressed them against her wound, letting out a deep, loud scream of pain, pressing her face uselessly into the wood of the Nemeton. After a few long, painful moments, her screams subsided. Breathing slowly, she looked up again, the bullet wound completely healed.

            Grace glanced at Cora. “Are you all right?”

            Cora’s hands slid out to the wolf, clutching its dark fur. “Yeah,” breathed Cora. “I’ll heal.”

            Quietly, her eyes focused on those of the wolf’s, Grace said, “Go help your brother. I’ll take care of her.”

            “What are we going to do?” asked Sam, looking up at her Alpha.

            “Tear her to pieces,” replied Jaz, her yellow eyes flickering up to Sam’s face. “Put her back in the ground.”

            Sam’s gaze lingered on Jaz for a moment, then she looked to Rosemary, who bowed her head in assent. “That should keep her down,” she said softly. “For good.”

            “No,” said Cora bluntly, kneeling beside the wolf on the wide surface of the tree. “Don’t touch her.”

            Grace watched Cora, her face tight. And then she reached out and, cautiously, began to say Cora’s name.

            Abruptly, a hand clamped around Cora’s wrist; Lydia gasped in fear, flinching away as the wolf below them became human once again, holding onto her sister tightly. Laura began to cry, and when she looked up, she met Cora’s gaze with blue-green eyes, pupils inky black.

            “No,” she whispered, through gentle, keening cries. “Don’t stop her. Let me go.” She squeezed Cora’s wrist tightly, searching her eyes. “ _Let me go_ ,” she breathed, tears cleaning perfect, pristine tracks down her face. “Don’t let me hurt anyone else.”

            She closed her eyes, hand shaking.

            “Derek,” she uttered, between shuddering breaths. “Just let me…see him…”

            Cora held her sister’s hand, saying nothing. And then she shifted, allowing Laura to glance beyond them, to where Derek still lay on the ground, unconscious. When she saw him, she immediately looked away, chin trembling, still desperately clinging to her sister’s hand.

            “Cora,” she breathed, the green of her eyes so like that of her brother, “tell him I’m sorry. I was awake the whole time, inside of her. I saw – everything-”

            She wept. Her head fell back, and she let out a loud cry, of shame and pain and grief. Grace glanced up at her pack and they silently left, going to Derek’s side. Scott did the same to Allison and Lydia, but Allison refused to meet his gaze, watching Cora stoically. He backed away with Lydia, turning around to return to where Stiles still lay.

            Cora held onto her sister. Laura opened her eyes and then moaned, “Grace.”

            Grace did nothing acknowledge that she had heard Laura, standing there without a word.

            “ _Grace_ ,” repeated Laura, as she wept. She let go of Cora’s wrist with one hand and reached out with barely enough strength to raise her arm, holding her fingers out towards the other woman. “Grace,” whispered Laura, and her eyes closed very slowly, and her cries calmed, fading away, “…I love…”

            Cora blinked, and she held onto soft fur again. The wolf did not move.

            Grace reached out and placed a hand on Cora’s. “Leave her,” she said, an old, tired ache in her voice. “I can finish this.”

            “ _No_ ,” said Cora, her voice slitting through the night. She tore her hands away from Grace, staring down at the animal before her. “She’s so close. I’m not letting her go. I wasn’t there to protect her last time, but I’m not letting my sister die again.”

            Allison said, “You have to, Cora. There’s nothing else we can do.”

            Her tongue flitted along her dry lips, and Cora pressed her hands into the soft fur of the wolf. “Yes, there is,” she said firmly. “Alpha transference. It’ll work like a final sacrifice. Or at least give her just enough power to come back.”

            “You can’t  _do_  that,” said Grace, her expression hard, turning to face Cora. She reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “It would kill you. I know – I  _know_  how badly you want her back. But you can’t expect her to live with your death on her shoulders. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.” Her fingers dug into Cora’s shoulder, and she looked back at the wolf lying unmoving before them. “You have to end this now, before it can hurt any of you any more.”

            There was a silence. And then Cora lowered her head down to the animal’s body, burying her face in the thick fur, clinging to her sister.

            She pulled away, hovering inches above the warm, humming body. “I can’t do it,” she murmured. “Not alone.”

            Cora glanced up, meeting Allison’s gaze.

            For a second, Allison didn’t move. And then she glanced around her, and looked back at Cora. “What?” she asked, puzzled. “What can I do?”

            Straightening up, her brow heavy and determined, keeping her hands clenched in the wolf’s fur, Cora began, “The Morrigan powered her this far. She’s so close, she only needs enough to bring her back for good. I don’t know if I can do it alone, but it might be possible…” she peered into Allison’s eyes, “…with two Alphas.”

            “ _What?_ ” asked Allison, aghast. “Cora, I’m not a werewolf. If you want an Alpha, Scott can help-”

            “That wouldn’t work,” said Cora, shaking her head. “Alpha transference is a female ritual. Besides, it’s too risky, she might take him as her final sacrifice and if that happens then it wouldn’t be Laura at all, it’d be the Morrigan. But if we can just give her enough-”

            “Cora,” said Allison, cutting her off. “Whatever this ritual is, I can’t help you. I’m  _not_  a werewolf.”

            “But you  _are_  an Alpha,” insisted Cora. “By inheritance. The same way I am. This has nothing to do with the wolf inside of us, this is about our power.” She reached out, taking hold of Allison’s arm; Allison realized, for the first time, that Cora was trembling. Still staring intently into Allison’s eyes, Cora continued, her voice gaining strength: “Your family has been built on destroying mine for centuries. Anyone before you, before  _you_ , Allison, before  _your_  generation, would have killed me the second you met me. You would have killed Scott as soon as you found out what he was. You would have burned my family alive, and cut my sister in two.”

            She stared at Allison, gripping her arm tightly. She was desperate, and yet it did not show on her face. She met Allison’s gaze steadily, without looking away.

            “You were the one,” she whispered, “who said we could change all of that.” The resolve in Cora’s eyes did not waver, even as her voice broke. “Give me this. Give me my family back. You owe it to me.”

            Nothing. And then, slowly, Allison took Cora’s hand. She said, “I’ll help you. But I don’t know how, I don’t have the kind of – the kind of connection that you have to her-”

            “That’s OK,” she said, finally looking down, back at the wolf bound in rope between them. “We have someone capable of linking human power to wolves.”

            Glancing up, her eyes slid past Allison, to where Lydia sat beside Stiles. Grace followed her gaze, and then her eyes widened. “A banshee?” she asked Cora, her voice hushed. “Of course. Her scream. That’s how the other Alpha found us.”

            “His name,” said Allison icily, looking over at Grace, “is Scott.”

            Without looking at Allison, Grace crossed, fetching Lydia, pulling her towards the Nemeton. “I’m going to  _what?_ ” she demanded, as soon as Allison told her the plan. “What are you talking about? I don’t know how to do that!”

            “Please,” said Cora. “Please. Just trust me.”

            She held out her hands. Allison took one of her hands and Lydia looked down at it warily for a moment, then finally relented, taking it and linking hands with Allison as well. The wolf lay in between them, barely breathing.

            Grace stood with Derek, with the rest of her pack. Rosemary watched the three girls in awe. “The Triple Goddess,” she whispered. Beside her, Derek stirred.

            The moon appeared from behind a cloud, shining down on the women around the Nemeton. A sweeping, warm wind rustled around their feet, an old creaking, moaning sound from beneath the great tree. Something hung about them, as if they were weightless, their breaths and hair and bodies moving in slow motion. On each of their backs, below the bony spot at the base of their necks, a shining spot glowed, brighter than the moon. The symbol of the Morrigan – the Triple Goddess – the brand of the Hale family – the triquetra – shone, shimmering on the side of the wolf before them.

            When the bright light subsided, there was a woman lying wrapped in rope. The three girls let go of each other, stumbling slightly, dizzy in their heads, unsteady in their legs.

            No one spoke.

            And then, fingers weak, Cora took the rope around her sister’s body and slowly began to untangle it. Allison and Lydia helped, even as Cora had to stop, pulling away, her fingers burning from the wolfsbane.

            Laura lay motionlessly before them, eyes closed.

            Gently, her head moved.

            Cora breathed deeply as her sister’s eyes fluttered open. She pressed her hands to her mouth, not daring to breathe. Very slowly, a smile appeared on Laura’s face and, contently, she muttered, “Cora Lynn… am I in Heaven?”

            “No,” breathed Cora, reaching out with trembling hands, taking her sister’s head, holding her, lying her head on her chest. “No, Laura. You’re alive.”

            Behind them, Derek, eyes wide, got to his feet. Still weak, he almost fell again, but Grace supported him, keeping him upright. Wordlessly he moved to his sisters. Laura saw him, and Cora supported her, helping her sit up. Derek could say nothing, only stare in shock as she drew him in, holding him tightly. Laura pressed her lips against her brother’s forehead, and they held each other, the Hale siblings reunited at last.

            Allison watched them. Beside her, Lydia let out a huge sigh of relief. “Damn it,” she muttered, blinking rapidly, wiping her cheeks with the inside of her wrist.  Allison watched her friend’s eyes fill with tears, and Lydia let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “What can I say?” she asked wryly. “I’m a total sucker for happy endings.” Allison laughed, and then the two girls embraced, hanging on to each other.

            From behind them, Scott spoke, breaking the respite of the moment.

            “It’s Stiles,” he called, looking up at them, stricken in fear. His gaze held Allison’s, then traveled back to Cora’s as he said, “There’s still something wrong.”

            With a glance at her brother and sister, Cora pulled herself away from the Nemeton. Unstably, she made her way over to the base of the tree where Stiles lay. She dropped to her knees beside him, and then reached out. Scott gently handed her Stiles’s body, shifting his head and shoulders to lie on her lap. His eyes were barely open but, she thought, he was conscious.

            He blinked at her, peering up through the gray darkness of approaching dawn. She ran a hand down his chest, then intertwined her fingers with his.

            Faintly, he asked, “Did we win?”

            She nodded.

            He returned the nod, his eyes closing slightly. “Is everyone else OK?”

            “Yes,” she replied, her voice very quiet. “But you aren’t.”

            He let out a shivering breath. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he muttered. “At least now we know how to bring me back, right?”

            He let out a hacking, wet cough. Blood splattered from his mouth across Cora’s clothes.

            “Hard to believe,” he began, eyes closed now, “a couple hours ago, I was  _this_  close to not dying a virgin.”

            “Don’t say that,” she said, stroking his hair.

            “What?” he asked, a tiny smile tugging at the black-stained corners of his mouth. “That I’m a virgin? Not like it’s a secret. Bet Derek’ll be relieved to hear it, I bet. No, Derek,” he called, raising his voice, “weird pack-mate-claim or not, I did not literally mate with your sister. You don’t have to worry about my nerdy-ass genes tarnishing future generations of Hale babies.” The almost-smile flickered on his lips, eyes still closed, then he asked, “Pups? Do you call them babies or pups? Do you have litters? Do you go into heat?” He laughed, but it turned into a cough, and then he leaned his head back, letting out a groaning, painful sigh. “All these werewolf sex-ed questions we never got around to.” He was silent for a long moment. And then, his voice raspy, he whispered, “Did you get your sister back?”

            “Yes,” replied Cora. He didn’t say anything. Her heart seemed to stop, and she asked, “Stiles-?” but then he spoke again.

            He asked, “What’s she like?”

            “You’ll find out,” said Cora. “You’ll meet her. I promise.”

            His mouth moved, lips opening and closing just a sliver. She trailed her fingers across the marks on his jaw, the moles dotting his neck, feeling his weak pulse.

            “Stiles,” she said. “Let me turn you.”

            “No,” he replied, with more strength than it seemed he had in him. “No. Cora. Don’t.”

            “You’ll heal,” she said soothingly, gently turning his head, exposing his neck. “You’ll be better. Scott can do it if you want, I don’t care, but I’m not losing you.”

            Feebly, his hand fluttered up, resting on hers. He could not grip her hand, but his eyes opened slightly, as best they could. “No,” he said again. “I don’t want that. Please don’t.” When Cora opened her mouth, gazing down at him searchingly, Stiles barely moved his head and then he said, “Scott, don’t let her. It’s OK.” He dragged his hand away from hers, throwing it out; Scott caught it, holding his friend’s hand tightly, dropping his head to press his face to Stiles’s limp fingers, tears wetting his skin. Eyelids flickering down again, Stiles murmured again, “It’s OK.”

            Nothing. His pulse echoed in their ears, and slowed. He coughed. “When I passed out before,” he muttered, leaning his head towards in towards Cora’s body, “did you give me mouth-to-mouth?”

            She did not reply. And then she leaned her face down, just above his, their noses touching. “Yes,” she told him.

            The smile returned. It seemed to take a huge exertion of effort to get the tips of his lips to turn upward. “Good,” he breathed. “Then we’re even.”

            She closed her eyes, and lowered her lips to his. He barely moved, returning the kiss. After a few lingering seconds, his mouth fell loosely beneath her.

            Pulling away, she opened her eyes, staring at his face. “Stiles?” she whispered. Her hands ran across his body, slipping up his neck, holding his head. “Stiles?” she asked, her hands trembling. He did not reply.

            She lowered her head, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. She pressed her forehead to his, cradling him in her arms, and for the first time that night, a cry came dripping from her lips, the mournful, empty howl of a widowed wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i am so sorry)
> 
> epilogue /////might// come before Teen Wolf comes back on Monday...........but it might not.
> 
> thank you for reading


	14. Epilogue: Pele

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

Pele

Na-maka-o-ka-hai saw enduring clouds day after day rising with the colors of the dark dense smoke of the underworld, and knew that her sister was still living. Pele had gained strength and confidence, therefore she entered alone into a conflict unto death.

The battle was fought by the two sisters hand to hand. Na-maka-o-ka-hai tore the body of Pele and broke her lava bones into great pieces which lie to this day along the seacoast of the district called Kahiki-nui. The masses of broken lava are called Na-iwi-o-Pele (the bones of Pele).

Pele was thought to be dead and was sorely mourned by the remaining brothers and sisters. Na-maka-o-ka-hai went off toward Nuu-mea-lani rejoicing in the destruction of her hated enemy. By and by she looked back over the wide seas. The high mountains of the island Hawaii, snow covered, lay in the distance. But over the side of the mountain known as Mauna Loa she saw the uhane, the spirit form of Pele in clouds of volcanic smoke tinged red from the flames of raging fire-pits below. 

She passed on to Nuu-mea-lani, knowing that she could never again overcome the spirit of Pele, the goddess of fire.

[x.](http://www.sacred-texts.com/pac/hlov/hlov07.htm)

 

            The light of the day was white and blinding, clouds covering the sun, refracting its rays across the sky. Cora stood alone before a grave, the earth below her fresh and recently overturned. Her eyes were fixed immovably on the letters engraved in the stone, spelling out a name. She was draped in black, down to a thin lace veil over her eyes, elegant and so seemingly out of place on her rough brow.

            She did not reach out to touch the grave, but held herself very still, each beat of her heart colliding painfully against her ribcage.

            Someone reached out and, coming to stand beside her, slid their arm around her shoulder.

            “Cora,” he said, his voice very quiet, his eyes glancing towards her, “please don’t tell me I’m the only one who thinks it’s really weird to throw a whole funeral for Peter.”

            Without glancing over at Stiles beside her, she replied, “He was family. It’s the absolute least we can do, after what I did to him.”

            “What _you_ did to _him?_ ” echoed Stiles dubiously. “Peter was an evil, manipulative creep. If anyone deserved to die, it was him.”

            “If I hadn’t killed him,” said Cora, “none of this would have happened.”

            Punctuating his words with a short nod and a small shrug, Stiles said, “Yeah, and you wouldn’t have your sister back. Your sister who _he_ killed, by the way.” When Cora did not look up from the gravestone, he continued, “Look, if you hadn’t killed him, he would have just figured out a way to take Alpha from you, and then he’d go back to making you and Derek do things that hurt people. Peter never cared about you or Derek or your sister. You did a favor to your family by getting rid of him.”

            There was a silence. And then Cora turned, her vision dotted and hazy by the veil across her eyes. “I know,” she said. “But I don’t know why that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

            Stiles watched her for a moment, and then he tucked his arms around her, and she rested her head in the crook of his shoulder. “Hey,” he muttered, “that’s OK, too. That’s the difference between him and you. Killing someone isn’t supposed to be easy.”

            They stood with each other for a second, and then she pulled away. Stiles reached out, tugging at the thin lace over her eyes. “What’s with the veil, anyway?” he asked. “It’s a funeral, not a nineteenth-century Victorian wedding.”

            “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” replied Cora, taking his hands, “but my family is pretty traditional.”

            “Is it, though?” asked Stiles, with a small, sly smile. “With a seventeen-year-old girl as the head of the family?”

            She gently pressed her lips against the side of his jaw. “Eighteen,” she murmured. “My birthday was in October.”

            He grinned, pulling away from her. “You’re eighteen?” he asked, and she nodded. “This just got statutory. I still have a year to go.” Their fingers intertwined, holding their hands up in between them, and she finally returned the smile, small and, if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought shy. “I didn’t know you were older than me.”

            “There’s a lot,” she said quietly, “that you don’t know about me.”

            “Yet,” he said pointedly, and then she reached up and they kissed, lips warm and soft and safe. He looked into her eyes, and she watched him without a word. And then he reached out and touched the lace veil at her face, pausing to glance at her. When she nodded, he lifted it over her eyes, smoothing it back across her hair. “Sorry,” he said. “Too marriage-y for me. Kinda weird for a second there.” He glanced back at the grave before them, then away across the cemetery. Stepping away from her, he leaned over, picking up a small mason jar he’d left on the ground, filled halfway with water holding a bouquet of flowers.

            Cora watched him hold the makeshift vase. “Are those for Peter?” she asked, sounding almost amused. Stiles shook his head and held out his hand; Cora took it, and they headed down, through the graveyard.

            “So,” he began, without looking up at her, “I really don’t know about this whole can’t-live-without-you, mates for life type thing – and, by the way, for the record I kind of like being in Scott’s pack, no offense – I mean, at least his family doesn’t use my druid-powers to bring dead women back to life – but my point is,” he continued, glancing up at her anxiously, “I was just wondering…do you want to go to the winter formal with me?”

            Letting out a small half-laugh, she shook her head, unable to hold down the warm smile on her lips. “Yes,” she said, looking at him very seriously. “Stiles. I would love to go to the winter formal with you.”

            He grinned. “All right,” he sighed. “You know what that makes you, right?”

            Barely glancing at him, her eyes spreading out across the cemetery, she offered, “Extremely gullible and victim to a few terrible judgment calls?”

            “No,” he replied, “I mean, maybe, I dunno. But, no, Cora, that makes _you_ -” he grinned, “-my first official date. Ever.”

            “Really?” she asked, and it seemed like there was more genuine surprise in her voice than disdain. “Your very first?”

            “Well,” said Stiles fairly, “I took Lydia to the last winter formal I went to. But only because she was kind of blackmailed into it. So.”

            Cora let go of his hand, taking the veil off of her head, shaking her hair back. “Mine too,” she replied. “Unless you count cowering in a bank vault for two months an overly-long, really, really terrible date.”

            Stiles made a face. “So…I mean… you and Boyd, you guys were…”

            Cora nodded, her eyes on the path before them. She said nothing.

            “Oh, man,” said Stiles, letting out a long sigh. “I’m sorry.”

            She shrugged, still walking with him, but refusing to meet his gaze. “Thank you.”

            There was a silence, and then he slowed down. “OK, well,” he began, “speaking of painfully awkward, obtrusive dead people.” He gestured to a grave before them, holding the jar with both hands. “Cora,” he said, “I want you to meet my mom.”

            Cora’s eyes flashed wide, and she looked at Stiles cautiously. He smiled at her, although it was a small, humble smile, so very much unlike the broad, grand grins she was used to, and then he leaned over and placed the jar of flowers at the base of the grave.

            “Mom,” he said, his voice very quiet, kneeling down to reach out, brush his fingers along the letters carved into stone. “This is Cora.” His fingers trailed down to the date of death. As always, an echoing, aching pain beat through his body, in tune to the beat of his heart. Softly, he whispered, “I think you’d like her.”

            Beside him, Cora knelt down as well, dropping a knee to the ground. Eyes on the grave, she said, “Hello, Mrs. Stilinski.”

            They left the cemetery together, heading out to where Derek and Laura stood, both dressed neatly in black, leaning against his car. As they approached, the two Hales stared them down, and Stiles felt supremely uncomfortable, glancing around anywhere to avoid their gaze. Derek leaned over and muttered something to Laura, and a smile broke out on her face, broad and wolfish, so much like that of her brother’s. When Stiles and Cora reached them, Laura asked, “Did you have a funeral for me?”

            “No,” replied Derek, without looking at his older sister. Stiles stared at the ground, wondering why the Hales seemed so hell-bent on maintaining perpetual eye contact. “There was no one around to mourn.”

            “And tell me,” said Laura, turning to her brother, arms folded across her chest, “who exactly is it that’s mourning Peter?”

            Derek let out a small breath, then turned his head. Stiles glanced up. There was something he was sure he had never seen in Derek’s expression, a mixture of affection and irritation and amusement. “Look,” he said. “The last time I _actually_ enjoyed his company was when I was fifteen-”

            “OK, Derek,” interrupted Laura, her voice full of teasing derision, rolling her eyes. “That’s why he convinced you to get that stupid tattoo like, two weeks before the fire.”

            “It’s not stupid,” protested Derek, but Laura waved him off.

            “Regardless,” said Laura, her voice cutting through the crisp winter air, “we’re done now. Cora.” She nodded towards the car, and Derek opened a door.

            Cora glanced from her siblings to Stiles, then asked, “I think that…I’d like to be with my friends for a little bit, right now.”

            Derek watched her, then looked to Laura, who considered this. “As your Beta,” she began, taking the car door from Derek, “I guess I can’t really question your decision.” She shut the car door. “As your older sister,” she continued, looking at Cora with an almost-smile on her face, “I say go have some fun.” She nodded towards Stiles’s car. “You deserve it.”

            Taking Stiles’s hand, the two of them headed towards the Jeep. Glancing over his shoulder, Stiles said, “So is it just me, or is your sister _way_ too well-adjusted to actually be related to you?”

            “I told you,” she replied, grinning at him, going around the car to slip into the passenger’s side. She turned to look at him. A hint of red threaded through her irises. “There is a _lot_ ,” she said, “you don’t know about me.”

            They met at Lydia’s house; Scott, Allison, and Isaac were already there, waiting in her living room, a movie on the big television. Stiles shed his jacket and the tie he’d worn for the little funeral, and Scott leapt up, greeting him with a hug, beaming at his friends. Cora took off her shoes and settled in on the floor, between Lydia and Isaac. “So?” asked Scott, sitting back down with Allison, whose hair was cropped short in the back, bangs hanging down just past her jaw. “What’s the plan now?”

            Everyone looked to Cora. She met their gazes for a second, then admitted, “I don’t really know. As far as the pack goes, it’s really unusual that both my older siblings are my Betas. I don’t know if I can keep it, or if it’ll bleed over to Laura. She’s the natural Alpha.”

            “Natural?” echoed Isaac. “What’s natural about coming back from the dead?”

            “Valid point,” said Lydia sympathetically, nodding.

            “Besides,” added Stiles, “I’d say you’re pretty damn capable. Not only did you stop the Morrigan, but you kept it from taking your sister too.”

            “Maybe,” she said fairly, nodding her head. “But the rules about who’s an Alpha and who isn’t are blurring. I can feel it." She glanced up and around and them, then said, "We’ll see where it goes.”

             Lydia leaned in towards Cora, taking hold of her arm, settling in happily. Almost uncertainly, Cora glanced at the other girl as Allison asked, “And what about your family? Not the pack, but the three of you. Are you staying in Beacon Hills?”

            Distractedly, Cora looked back to Allison. “Yeah,” she replied blankly. “I have school to finish.”

            “And a school dance to attend,” added Stiles, grinning.

            “The apartment’s a little small for the three of us,” added Cora. “That reminds me. Stiles, Laura wants to talk to your dad.”

            “My dad?” he asked, blinking down at her. “I haven’t even really introduced _you_ to my dad yet, unless you count that one time you passed out in front of him in my room-”

            The rest of the group exchanged looks as Cora rolled her eyes sharply and responded, “About the house, getting it back from the county.” She looked at them, and then said, “Derek and Laura want to put it back together.”

            “ _Your_ house?” asked Allison dubiously. “That thing’s totally wrecked. It’s been burned to the ground twice now.”

            Isaac added, “You’d have better luck taking the whole thing down and building up from nothing.”

            Cora did not reply immediately, only shook her head. “I think that’s the point,” she said, her voice softer than most of them had ever heard it. “To take what’s left of it, and build it back up around what we lost.” She looked down, and then finally returned the pressure of Lydia’s body, leaning back towards the other girl. “And it’s not like we’ll do it alone,” she continued. Her gaze flickered up to Allison. “I’d say you and your father owe it to us to help out a little.”

            At first, Allison didn’t know what to do. Guilt reared in her chest just as strongly as deep, sudden affection for the girl. A smile won out, tugging at her lips. “Yeah,” she said. “I’d say so too.”

            “I’d help,” sighed Stiles, shrugging. “But I’m not very good at carrying heavy things. Or, like. Any form of manual labor.”

            “That’s good,” said Isaac, “because I am.”

            “Me too,” added Scott.

            They all glanced around, and their gazes landed on Lydia. “Mmm,” she began. “I’ll help with the redecorating.”

            They laughed, and Cora smiled, and the TV droned on behind them, and everyone breathed easy.

            Later, when Cora's pack waited in the forest, only Grace came. Before she moved, Laura had to pause and glance back at her sister. For a moment Cora didn’t understand why, and then Derek nudged her gently, and she blinked and nodded and said, “Go! Go. Go ahead.” Laura smiled gratefully, and then she followed Grace away from them, slipping into the forest. As she disappeared between the trees, Grace glanced over her shoulder at Cora, her head bowed so slightly, as if in thanks.

            Cora sat on a fallen log in the darkness, resting her chin on her hands, thoughts racing through her head. Derek stood before her stoically, arms folded, like a stone guardian. A familiar scent, and someone else approached them. Saying nothing, Derek watched her.

            Sam said, “Cora,” and Cora’s gaze snapped up, looking at the girl. Aggressively, instinctually baring her teeth, Cora got to her feet. Sam held up her hands, claws and fangs not yet extended.

            The Alpha stared at other girl for a long second. And then, finally, she said, “Derek. Give us a second.” Wordlessly, he followed her direction, darting away into the trees.

            Sam did not advance towards her. And then she said, “So you got what you wanted.”

            “Not completely,” replied Cora warily. “I want my entire family back. I wanted to grow up here. I definitely never wanted to be Alpha.”

            Nothing. Then Sam shrugged. “It suits you,” she said simply.

            The waning moon hung above then, a huge, yellowish orb. Cora took a step forward, and she said, “Just tell me something. Everything you went through. Everything you told me.” She paused, staring at Sam’s dark eyes. “Was that all made up? All part of Grace’s plan to get me to sympathize with you, so she knew what I was doing, where I would be?”

            Sam shook her head. “No,” she replied. “I wanted out of that house. I wanted power enough that nobody could hurt me. When Grace found me and turned me, I was desperate, and alone, and I didn’t know what to do.” She stopped, glancing around at the dark, tall trees around them. “Killing them saved me,” she murmured. “I’m not proud of it, but I’m not about to deny it either.”

            Slowly, Cora cocked her head to the side, watching Sam. The other girl’s eyes turned suddenly golden-yellow, bright and piercing in the dark night.

            “So,” said Cora, “it looks like Grace gave you everything you wanted.”

            “Not completely,” said Sam, echoing Cora’s reply, an odd, pained expression on her face. Impassive and stark, Cora watched her. “Grave gave me a pack,” she said lowly, staring straight at Cora, “but all I wanted was a friend.”

            Something seemed to constrict in Cora’s chest, like wires wrapped around her chambered heart. She glanced away from Sam’s face, an uncharacteristic, uncomfortable prickling in her eyes.

            By the time Grace returned, Laura with her, Derek stood with Cora once more, but Sam waited slightly behind them, without shame. Grace’s eyes slid back to her.

            “I don’t want to stay here,” said Grace. “I’m not going to. I have no allegiance to your family, and I have my own pack now. We have to look out for ourselves.”

            Derek glanced at Laura, who said nothing, watching Grace with stoic, quiet eyes.

            Grace held out a hand to Cora. She looked down at it for a moment, then reached out, offering her own. They gripped one another’s wrists, and Grace, raising her voice, said, “Sam. Are you staying?”

            Behind Cora, Sam nodded.

            Grace let go of Cora’s arm. Surveying the remaining scion of the once-great Hale line, Grace said, “It’s good that you’re together again. It’s…fitting.”

            “You could stay,” said Laura suddenly, watching Grace. “Last time we were here, my family was broken, and I left you. Now it feels like we’re all better, but one of us is still leaving.”

            Before Laura had even finished speaking, Grace spoke over her faintly. “You left me, Laura,” she said. “That’s my point.” She fell silent, watching the other woman. “You were the one who left me.”

            There was a silence. And then, without looking around, Laura strode forwards and took Grace’s face in her hands and kissed her deeply, lingering on her lips. The kiss contained all the promise that they had had as girls, all potential they had lost with the fire, and every prophecy and could- and would-have-been, and every expression of adoration, of adulation, of worship and martyrdom and how easily things can fall apart.

            Grace pulled her lips away, but did not move her head, and their noses and foreheads all but touched. She whispered, “I’m not leaving forever. I’ll be back, sometime, I’m sure.” She hesitated, then said, “Just not to join your pack. Not when I have my own.”

            “Every day,” said Laura, her voice trembling, searching Grace’s eyes desperately. “Every day for six years, I regretted leaving you.”

            Looking down, refusing to let Laura look for anything more, Grace replied, “You could have come back.”

            When Laura didn’t reply, Grace pushed away from her, stepping back.

            A bitter smile on her face, Grace said shrewdly, “I think you know why I’m leaving, Laura. A lot of what we… what we used to be…was built on the fact that I wanted to be one of you. So badly.” Her smile was not unkind as she said, “I don’t need that anymore.”

            Laura watched her. “You don’t need me anymore.”

            Grace shook her head. There was silence. Grace and Laura stared at each other, and then, softly, Grace said, “That doesn’t mean I don’t love you. That doesn’t mean I won’t always love you. But it does mean that I have to go.”

            At last, Grace tore her gaze away from the other woman, and she looked to Cora.

            “You did good,” she said. “You did more than should have been possible.”

            “We survived,” replied Cora, correcting her. “We squeezed through the cracks. It’s what our family does.” She didn’t return Grace’s smile, but there was no hostility in her voice as she added, “Everybody acts like we’re royalty sometimes, but at the end of the day, we’re just a name that’s barely managed to scrape by for the past few centuries.”

            Grace bowed her head in assent. “And you’ll do it again,” she said. “Death has never really agreed with your family.”

            She smiled. Without another word, she slipped into the forest and away from them, disappearing into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you didn't think I would really kill off Stiles, did you??
> 
> If you have any suggestions or ideas of what you'd like to see in a sequel, let me know in the comments!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! This fic was a total labor of love, and I had a lot of fun writing it. I hope you understand my love for Cora Hale now, haha, and I hope you love her too. Follow me at lusilly.tumblr.com (and at uglyteenwolves.tumblr.com, my exclusively Teen Wolf blog), and check out some of my other Teen Wolf stories on my profile.
> 
> So excited for the premiere tonight! Here's to a (hopefully) great 3B!


	15. Post-Script (Teaser)

            Days later, the three siblings stood inside the wreck of their childhood home, plans laid across a long table, one of the only remaining vestiges of humanity left in the house. The front frame was still remarkably intact for all the destruction inside. The red door was now too broken even to swing on its hinges, banging in its pathetic frame. Cora lingered by a wall, half burnt-out, as Laura and Derek pored over the plans for the reconstruction of the house.

            Staring vacantly into the distance, Cora asked, “You think Sam will get along with Isaac?”

            “No,” replied Derek, without looking up. “But it’s not like we can offer her anywhere else to stay.”

            “Look at you,” mused Laura, patting her brother proudly on the arm. “Paying rent for underage orphans. Buying them cars. I’m touched.”

            Derek replied, and he and Laura’s conversation quickly turned into bickering. Standing apart from them, Cora slowly lifted her hand, reaching backwards to touch the spot at the base of her neck where the symbol of the Morrigan felt burned into her skin.  _When tattooed on skin_ , she thought, recalling Deaton’s words,  _it is a mark of inheritance._

            “Laura,” said Cora suddenly, breaking the banter between her siblings. Laura looked up expectantly, waiting for a question. Cora met her gaze, something in between concern and confusion in her eyes, and then she moved forward, to where they stood around the table. “Lydia and Allison say they can feel it too,” she said. “It’s not there, but it’s like – a slow burn. Every time something touches it, we can tell, but there’s nothing there. No tattoo, no mark, no brand, nothing.” She watched her sister. “What’s happening to us?”

            For a second, Laura said nothing. And then she let out a small sigh, looking down at the papers before them.

            “What you did with those girls,” she said, “was stupid. It was…generous. And I am damn glad you did it, but you brought me back – me and me alone, without the Morrigan – because you tapped into her power. You and…” she trailed off, glancing at Derek.

            “Lydia and Allison,” he provided, and Laura nodded.

            “Thank you – you and Lydia and Allison, you girls completed a spell. But it wasn’t the spell the Morrigan wanted to use.”

            “A spell?” echoed Cora. “Allison’s human. I’m barely an Alpha. Lydia is the closest thing to a druid, but she’s a banshee-”

            “Not a druid,” said Laura, shaking her head. “The power of the Triple Goddess is older than that, and much simpler, more primal.”

            Cora observed her sister doubtfully. “Not a druid?” she repeated.

            Again, Laura shook her head. “No.”

            “Then what?”

            The look on Laura’s face was almost pitiful. She placed the tip of her index finger on the papers before her, and drew the outline of the triquetra. “One, two, three,” she said. “You, Lydia, Allison. Why is the number three so powerful, Cora?”

            “It’s not,” replied Cora shortly. “Three wolves are weak. Including the Alpha, you need at least four to make a decent pack.”

            “Ah,” said Laura, her eyes slowly traveling up to meet Cora’s, a satisfied smile on her face. “But you three girls don’t make a pack, Cora.” She paused, watching the crease in Cora’s brow deepen, impatient and perplexed. “You three,” said Laura, very quietly, tracing the circle in the center of the triquetra, “…make a coven.”


End file.
